It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. She loved him. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. He's more like a lord than—" As she spoke, steps were heard approaching; the door was thrown open, and a young man marched boldly into the room. It's never a bad day that has a good ending. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. She had not felt comfortable in his presence from the first, and with Leonardo’s precepts in mind, was loath to trust him. When she saw however that this man was a stranger, and obviously harmless, her expression changed as though by magic. “That beast of a fellow is certain to be hanging about. "Well, like or not, I'm greatly pleased with it, and must beg it from you as a memorial——" "Of what?" she interrupted, startled by his change of manner. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart.
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