Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. "You've given him a broken head, I perceive. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. ” Like most men who lie but seldom, he lied well. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. What was the fellow about? Was he being imposed upon? He watched as the man Valade turned back, spreading his hands in the French way. " "But you are young!" It was a protest, almost vehement. ” “It would be different all the same. Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse.
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