He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. An unwelcome idea came to him. Ah Coom. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. He trembled violently.
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