I suspect he has a bit of vanity. Aunt and niece regarded each other silently. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. The knight and his followers crossed the threshold, leaving one of the torch-bearers behind them. I don’t believe in the faults.
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