Whenever you grow impatient with her, remember the folly of her father. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. Manning, I do not really want to marry. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark.
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