The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. F. 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 was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet.
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