Drummond had made an abominable mistake. She felt very awkward as she stared at 103 the top of his ashen hair. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. “Then I don’t take this as final. Leave the means to me. Something seemed awry. If he did resemble me, I shouldn't care about him. It was common name, so I was thrown off the scent.
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