"So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch. "Did you ever see the like of her?" "No," answered McClintock, gravely. Probably hadn't. Her head rose. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. She had had two days of employment-seeking now. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted.
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