Chapter XXI HER SISTER’S SECRET “I think,” Lady Ferringhall said, “that you are talking very foolishly. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. “The wrappered life-discipline! One comes to that at last. A boy like John’s dashing friend David Mitchell, someone who shares your love of academics. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. It had showed up at an auction at Sotheby’s after someone had sold it. It was perfectly logical. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction.
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