He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. 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. She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. She did not hear his approach, but continued her occupation without raising her head. Her eyebrows were lifted in expostulation. . I know what I am doing better than you do. To-morrow they will all be contradicted. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly.
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