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“
Oh
,
Mrs
.
Murrett
’
s
—
was
it
there
?
”
He
remembered
her
now
,
of
course
:
remembered
her
as
one
of
the
shadowy
sidling
presences
in
the
background
of
that
awful
house
in
Chelsea
,
one
of
the
dumb
appendages
of
the
shrieking
unescapable
Mrs
.
Murrett
,
into
whose
talons
he
had
fallen
in
the
course
of
his
head
-
long
pursuit
of
Lady
Ulrica
Crispin
.
Oh
,
the
taste
of
stale
follies
!
How
insipid
it
was
,
yet
how
it
clung
!
“
I
used
to
pass
you
on
the
stairs
,
”
she
reminded
him
.
Yes
:
he
had
seen
her
slip
by
—
he
recalled
it
now
—
as
he
dashed
up
to
the
drawing
-
room
in
quest
of
Lady
Ulrica
.
The
thought
made
him
steal
a
longer
look
.
How
could
such
a
face
have
been
merged
in
the
Murrett
mob
?
Its
fugitive
slanting
lines
,
that
lent
themselves
to
all
manner
of
tender
tilts
and
foreshortenings
,
had
the
freakish
grace
of
some
young
head
of
the
Italian
comedy
.
The
hair
stood
up
from
her
forehead
in
a
boyish
elf
-
lock
,
and
its
colour
matched
her
auburn
eyes
flecked
with
black
,
and
the
little
brown
spot
on
her
cheek
,
between
the
ear
that
was
meant
to
have
a
rose
behind
it
and
the
chin
that
should
have
rested
on
a
ruff
.
When
she
smiled
,
the
left
corner
of
her
mouth
went
up
a
little
higher
than
the
right
;
and
her
smile
began
in
her
eyes
and
ran
down
to
her
lips
in
two
lines
of
light
.
He
had
dashed
past
that
to
reach
Lady
Ulrica
Crispin
!
“
But
of
course
you
wouldn
’
t
remember
me
,
”
she
was
saying
.
“
My
name
is
Viner
—
Sophy
Viner
.
”
Not
remember
her
?
But
of
course
he
did
!
He
was
genuinely
sure
of
it
now
.
“
You
’
re
Mrs
.
Murrett
’
s
niece
,
”
he
declared
.
She
shook
her
head
.
“
No
;
not
even
that
.
Only
her
reader
.
”
“
Her
reader
?
Do
you
mean
to
say
she
ever
reads
?
”
Miss
Viner
enjoyed
his
wonder
.
“
Dear
,
no
!
But
I
wrote
notes
,
and
made
up
the
visiting
-
book
,
and
walked
the
dogs
,
and
saw
bores
for
her
.
”
Darrow
groaned
.
“
That
must
have
been
rather
bad
!
”
