Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. If you knew your aunt were alive, if she expected you, that would be different. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. This was his humiliation as well as hers.
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