There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. ‘What do you do here?’ demanded the young lady, moving to meet him. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. Wary they might be.
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