“You do not quite understand,” she said gently. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. She was honest again. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. Her eyes fell, and then sought his again with timid interest. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. “Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. "These packets will establish Thames Darrell's birth, win him his inheritance, and procure him the hand of Winifred Wood.
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