Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. The Becks were the best foster family that she had ever had. The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. I’m sorry I ruined dinner. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window.
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