She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. Morningside Park was a suburb that had not altogether, as people say, come off. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them.
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