“I was sick of the make-believe. Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Not these twenty year. That is very bad, certainly, and for this he was extremely sorry. It was the grand nursery of vice. It was in her eyes—the big thing that comes but once. It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of another. To perdition with them all. She was unusually pale, and her eyes were brilliant. I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard.
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