His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. Some part of the stiff vigour of the man seemed to have subsided. His hair had begun to gray, his belly had just begun to round. 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.
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