Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. 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. If she has no children, she goes on loving her husband; but he is no longer a man but a child. Jack submitted to this scrutiny with a very bad grace, and vehemently protested his innocence. ‘I do not wish to be like him, but it is entirely reasonable that it should be so.
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