The bed-and table-linen were of the finest texture. It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury. . After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. “Be so good as to stand away from that door at once, sir,” Brendon ordered. These things did not harmonize with his conception of the forthcoming (if unavoidable) interview. But I tell you in return, I shall take no pains to hide myself. There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs. I suppose I believe in God. .
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