His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. Wild. 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. There must be something, one feels, in ideas that achieve persistently a successful resurrection. I won't keep you long. I shall never come back. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent.
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