” “No. ” She whispered. . The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. “I supposed that he took off his hat to you. The summons was instantly answered by a shop-boy. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher. “I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent. We come out into the world, some of us—” She paused. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. At least, you are one, and I am disguised like one.
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