“You’re self-taught, aren’t you, Lucy?” She looked around the table, all eyes upon her. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. It towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. “I knew of course that you were at the Montressor’s, but I had no idea that it was a music hall party afterwards.
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