“You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. That's my maxim; and it's the maxim of every honest man. It's only right that his people should know where he is and what has happened to him. "Heed her not. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love.
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