She didn’t choose her man. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. " "It wasn't the fumes of whisky that toppled him out of his chair. Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully. " "Impossible," replied Sheppard, in the same tone. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. Come back—you must come back.
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