She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. ” He glared at Martin. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. I could not become an Oracle. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. ’ She eyed him. And now I find, when it is too late, that I might have deserved you—that I am as well born as Thames Darrell.
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