“Oh, much better. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. Yon must be mine to-night. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. It was 1582. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. ‘But this is altogether a chance of the luckiest. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago.
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