Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. He hated the taste of it. Nothing has been touched since. “Then we must try and make London endurable for you,” he remarked cheerfully. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers.
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