These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. Sheppard. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard.
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