“Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. She had come across the wicked South Seas which were still infested with cannibals; she had seen drunkenness and called men beachcombers; who was this moment as innocent as a babe, and in the next uttered some bitter wisdom it had taken a thousand years of philosophy to evolve. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. I was standing near Jack at that awful moment, and beheld the look Wild fixed on him. “You must come home to him at once,” said Miss Stanley.
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