He then spoke with a certain fatherly kindliness of the past. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. "Take off these chains, Rowland," said Lady Trafford, "instantly, I command you. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. “After all,” he said, “I am not sure that you are not a very material person. . He's now in spring-ankle warehouse with Sir Rowland Trenchard. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own.
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