“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. ’ ‘In a somewhat roundabout fashion, if you ask me,’ came in a mutter from her old nurse, very much in her usual style. With this air in our blood, this sunlight soaking us. She turned back into the hall. My motive in coming hither is to serve you, and save your life. ‘So now you may safely cease your roundaboutation, and tell me what took you to Remenham House. His first wife.
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