“I only give gentle hints concerning your future relations towards each other, Lord Mowbray; publishers will step in later, to inform you as to your intrinsic value.” Danford bowed to Lord Mowbray and, turning to Lionel, said, “Where do you intend going this evening, my lord?”
“After a light collation I am taking Hornsby to the Empire to see Holophernes; it was one of the great attractions before the storm.”
“Yes, and likely to be the last of that kind; but I shall leave your lordship to judge for yourself.”
“Ta-ta, Danford—shall see you to-morrow early about the Dining-Halls scheme.”
Nettie Collins, Gwendolen’s social guide, declared she had nothing more to teach her pupil now she had made such progress in the art of observation, recognised her lover, and just lately known her father again. This last event had been curious. One day, Gwen was walking through the rooms of the National Gallery, enjoying the beauty of art that had been hidden from her for so many years; as she stood in front of Pinturicchio’s “Story of Griselda,” wondering at the past generations who not only allowed, but insisted on women turning themselves into beasts of burden, she noticed a middle-aged man of commanding stature, close to her, gazing at the same picture. She looked up and her eyes met his; her present surroundings vanished, and she lived in an evoked dream, which brought back past scenes and long-buried joys. As she stared at him, she little by little reconstructed the scenes of her childhood, and as in a trance her lovely lips faintly murmured the word “Father.”