“The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. I have recently made your sister’s acquaintance, and in the course of conversation I understood from her that her Christian name was Anna. Why else?’ Gerald stared at her blankly. There is Lady Arlingford’s reception to-night, ten till twelve, and the Hatton House ball, marked with a cross, sir, important. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. How many ends had he? Well, she must cease to trouble herself for this imbecile, whom it would give her very much pleasure to shoot. I’ve got imagination.
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