Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. Your life is like a funeral March. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. How fortunate that she recognises the resemblance. To vault over the pews was the work of a moment; and having gained the entry leading to the Red Room he passed through the first door; his progress being only impeded by the pile of broken stones, which he himself had raised. He was aware of Hilary, in company with Lucilla and the comtesse’s daughter some few yards away, listening in suddenly. ’ ‘Pottiswick, you mean, miss?’ ‘Yes, yes. Two of these had been her particular intimates at the High School, and had done much to send her mind exploring beyond the limits of the available literature at home.
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