Sheila McCloskey was the real neighborhood watch. A door led to the inner room; and it was evident from the peals of merriment, and other noises, that, ever and anon, resounded from within, that this chamber was occupied by the Marquis and his friends. In the flagged entrance hallway at the bottom, where extra light came in from a window above the double doors, it was easy enough to distinguish a family group, and a landscape which clearly included Remenham House in the distance. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. ’ A thought caught in her mind and she turned quickly to her old nurse. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said.
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