Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. Bring in his comrade," he added, in a whisper to Charcam; "I'll take care of him. Every inch of the house felt safe to her, small and welcoming. Diane did not hear the footsteps on her brick patio or the audible click of the back door lock being compromised. Some one was standing beside him. Perhaps that was the reason why she enjoyed preparing suppers at the Becks. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face.
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