Sometimes I tremble, Anna, to think how near I came to passing through life without a single glimpse, a moment’s revelation of this greatest and most awful of mysteries, the mystery of primaeval nature. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. Please sit down, Miss —dear me, I haven’t asked you your name yet. He could not see these two shrinking misses capering about in a nun’s habit and brandishing a defiant pistol. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. It doesn’t seem to matter. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be. I have an aunt who is coming to live with me, and I do not intend to receive any visitors at all. Between comrades it is the most usual thing in the world, and I do not see how your sex intervenes. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard.
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