There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. It was. ’ ‘No, miss,’ cut in Kimble. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. You observe that I am, as usual, fairly cheerful, and moderately amiable. 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.
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