She got up early, and walked about the garden in the dewy June sunshine and revived her childhood. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. He no longer made love to her, as there was no point. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. But if he's in bed, how the devil is he going with me, supposing I decide to hire him? The mudhook comes up to-morrow night. He would teach her all he knew of life so that if the Hand should ever reach his shoulder, she would be able to defend herself. It has been a big night.
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