She never expected to get her ladyship home alive. “I did not,” Anna answered. Manning told her he loved beauty, and extorted a similar admission from her; he then expatiated upon his own love of beauty. If she was in a position to help him she would help him; only it happened to be the other way round. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. 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. Yet she took with her an uneasy consciousness that in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble.
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