in a convent. The Nuns consider it the height of depravity," and
she laughed, a ringing girlish outburst of amusement that Craven
had never yet heard. He looked at her as she knelt on the rug
soothing the poodle's outraged feelings and smiling at Peters who
was offering his own more adequate handkerchief. That laugh was a
revelation--in spite of her self-possession, of her reserve, she
was in reality only a girl, hardly more than a child, but
influenced by her quiet gravity he had forgotten the fact.

As he watched her a slight frown gathered on his face. It seemed
that Peters, in a few hours, had penetrated the barrier outside
which he, after months, still remained. With him she was always
shyly silent. On the few rare occasions in Paris and in London
when he had found himself alone with her she had shrunk into
herself and avoided addressing him; and he had wondered,
irritably, how much was natural diffidence and how much
due to convent training. But he had made no effort at further
understanding, for the past was always present dominating
inclinations and impulses--perpetual memory, jogging at his
elbow. There were days when the only relief was physical
exhaustion and he disappeared for hours to fight his devils in
solitude. And in any case he was not wanted, it was better in
every way for him to efface himself. There was nothing for him
to do--thanks to the improvidence of John Locke no business
connected with the trust. Miss Craven had taken complete
possession of Gillian and he held aloof, not attempting to
establish more intimate relations with his ward. But tonight,
with a fine inconsistency, it piqued him that she should respond
so readily to Peters. He knew he was a fool--it mattered not
one particle to him--Peters' magnetism was proverbial--but,