She saw her aunt in tears, her father white-faced and hard hit. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. He was—a millionaire. He could not make good his hold. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. But what I do is based upon the fact that he is one of those individuals who are conscience-driven. She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it. ” The wonderful likeness between the two girls was never less noticeable than at that moment.
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