. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. John turned toward the short staircase as she alit upon the first creaky step. He remembered also, all at once, the very first words he had heard her speak: “I was not born to this. Probably hadn't. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. The Northern Ocean keeps a secret better than the Thames, Sir Rowland.
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