But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. ” Lady Ferringhall was conscious of some relief. “I am sorry. There are way-stations—even terminals. “Do you know why they are estranged?” Lucy asked. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. She went to the post-office and drew out and sent off her money to Ramage. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. They took their places at a distant table. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered.
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