What sort of proof? There are no papers at Remenham House. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. I wonder,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “whether you ever realize how young you are. Wood trembled. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. She recalled that she had heard nothing that first time when Gerald and the captain had burst in upon her. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself.
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