“May you have as much good fortune as you deserve, but not enough to make you forget us. I can never be grateful enough. To-night all London believes that he was your husband. In Hamilton Place that is, like I told you before, miss. To-night she could have hugged both the old maids. He’s the handle of life for you. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him. He’s riding down the drive. The last time Pottiswick had called out the militia on suspicion of intruders in Remenham House, a large rodent had been all the spoil. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. Manning would on no account do, though he was tall and dark and handsome and kind, and thirty-five and adequately prosperous, and all that a husband should be.
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