" "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling. “Lighten up. You must come back. ” Brendon laughed softly. What she actually wanted was the present state of affairs to continue indefinitely. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. Very soon she would be able to forget it. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. ” So they went this time to the Rococo, in Germain Street, and up-stairs to a landing upon which stood a bald-headed waiter with whiskers like a French admiral and discretion beyond all limits in his manner. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols.
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