Fortescue in the drawing-room, and actually shake hands with him in an entirely hopeless manner and hope everything would turn out for the best. Martha was quite right. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Jonathan caught her in his arms. The lady murmured briefly to her husband, and then tucked her hand into Alderley’s arm. 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. “You had no right—” panted Ann Veronica.
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