By his side sat a remarkably stout dame, to whom he paid as much attention as it was in his iron nature to pay. He would have sent the Virgin Mary to heal the baby. She was in one of her old walking-dresses, her hair was done in an unfamiliar manner, she wore a wedding-ring, and she looked as if she had been crying. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. “Why come after me after all these years, Sebastianus? Haven’t you found any sycophants to convert, any nubile young nymphets to bring into the cannibal flock?” “Why should I do that if there is still the chance of you?” “What if there could be no chance of me? How do you know you can have me?” “I see your game. “Beasts!” But Miss Miniver took no notice of his admission. That is my real milieu, and one that I am convinced you would not only adorn but delight in.
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