She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. ‘Naturally I had to come,’ confirmed the lively blonde, her eyes twinkling up at Alderley. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. I thank God for His sunlight on your face. You mustn't go by what you read so much as by what you see and hear.
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