“Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. He turned round toward her and found her looking at him and standing very still. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. ” The change in Lady Ferringhall’s manner was subtle but unmistakable. A live man. But it was extraordinary what seemingly irrelevant things could restore her to the thought of Capes again.
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