The eldest, Constance, was lost, by the carelessness of a servant, during her infancy, and has never since been heard of: the youngest, Aliva, is the present Lady Trafford. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. Ludicrously loud sounds streamed from the array of speakers. They crossed the Park to the westward, and then turned back and walked round the circle about the Royal Botanical Gardens and then southwardly toward Waterloo. She twisted her fingers tightly. The coach was slowing down, and he realised that they had arrived in Golden Square. “You will pardon me, sir,” he said in a subdued tone, “but I think that you have forgotten to look at your engagement book. But threats and entreaties—even promises were ineffectual; and the unlucky captive, after exhausting his powers of persuasion, was compelled to give up the point. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. But I don’t wish to hear that abomination on her lips again.
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