Sir John stood upon the threshold. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. He told me that he was a millionaire. But to go courting a slave-girl, at the risk of physical hurt! A shudder of distaste wrinkled her shoulders. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. Russell trouble, a good lot of trouble. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. I found a blue stone on the beach once. “You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. . Nice, of course.
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