‘Yes, but quite my own fault. His wife met him at the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge. And tell Pottiswick to mend that lock we broke. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable.
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