” Her aunt answered in a low voice: “I was engaged to him, dear, for seven years, and then he died. I kept them on myself till the sight of your empty chair and the chill loneliness of it all nearly sent me mad. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. “But—your people!” she gasped. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Returning to the audience-chamber, Blueskin had the Jew brought before him. It is she that I must see. ” Her thoughts went into solution for a time, while she listened to a lark singing. ” “I wish you good luck,” she answered. Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his.
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