Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. At the same time she was wildly exultant at the resolution she had taken, the end she had made to her blunder.
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