Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. Conscious of Mrs. ’ ‘What?’ ‘Neat little toy. And her mother, looking unusually alert and hectic, wore cream and brown also, made up in a more complicated manner. Almost had Martha won out. I did not know what God had in mind then. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. “You are Mademoiselle Pellissier?” he asked, without rising to his feet. ” “Well,” she said, “has there not been some reason for this? The likeness to Annabel could scarcely have escaped remark.
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