“Now, really, Rudolph, aren’t his books wonderful?  I don’t appreciate them, of course, for I’m not clever, but I know you do.  I don’t see why men think him selfish.  I know better.  You have to live with Jack to really appreciate him.  And every day I discover some new side of his character that makes him dearer to me.  He’s so clever—­and so noble.  Why, I remember—­Well, before Jack made his first hit with Astaroth’s Lackey, he lived with his sister.  They hadn’t any money, and, of course, Jack couldn’t be expected to take a clerkship or anything like that, because business details make his head ache, poor boy.  So, his sister taught school, and he lived with her.  They were very happy—­his sister simply adores him, and I am positively jealous of her sometimes—­but, unfortunately, the bank in which she kept her money failed one day.  I remember it was just before he asked me to marry him, and told me, in his dear, laughing manner, that he hadn’t a penny in the world, and that we would have to live on bread and cheese and kisses.  Of course, I had a plenty for us both, though, so we weren’t really in danger of being reduced to that.  Well, I wanted to make his sister an allowance.  But Jack pointed out, with considerable reason, that one person could live very comfortably on an income that had formerly supported two.  He said it wasn’t right I should be burdened with the support of his family.  Jack was so sensitive, you see, lest people might think he was making a mercenary marriage, and that his sister was profiting by it.  Now, I call that one of the noblest things I ever heard of, for he is devotedly attached to his sister, and, naturally, it is a great grief to him to see her compelled to work for a living.  His last book was dedicated to her, and the dedication is one of the most tender and pathetic things I ever read.”

Musgrave was hardly conscious of what she was saying.  She was not particularly intelligent, this handsome, cheery woman, but her voice, and the richness and sweetness of it, and the vitality of her laugh, contented his soul.

Anne was different; the knowledge came again to him quite simply that Anne was different, and in the nature of things must always be a little different from all other people—­even Patricia Musgrave.  He had no desire to tell Anne Charteris of this, no idea that it would affect in any way the tenor of his life.  He merely accepted the fact that she was, after all, Anne Willoughby, and that her dear presence seemed, somehow, to strengthen and cheer and comfort and content beyond the reach of expression.

Yet Musgrave recognized her lack of cleverness, and liked and admired her none the less.  A vision of Patricia arose—­a vision of a dainty, shallow, Dresden-china face with a surprising quantity of vivid hair about it.  Patricia was beautiful; and Patricia was clever, in her pinchbeck way.  But Rudolph Musgrave doubted very much if her mocking eyes now ever softened into that brooding, sacred tenderness he had seen in Anne’s eyes; and he likewise questioned if a hurried, happy thrill ran through Patricia’s voice when Patricia spoke of her husband.