The picture of Mary Remenham was still on the wall. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. And by monsieur le baron, of a disposition entirely unforgiving, I do not desire to be recognised in the least. It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern.
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