Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. Now keep still. It was then that the young man entered his thought with some permanency: because there was no apparent reason for his joining the tour, since from the beginning he had shown no interest in anything. I do not know. I thought if you were living, and not captured, I should find you here,—and I was right. For was not Gerald a gentleman? An Englishman, whose services any female—excluding her own self so idiote— would be very happy to have. They don’t count, and I don’t care. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor.
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