" "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. You have neither reason nor logic. Sheppard," rejoined Winifred, controlling her emotion, and speaking as cheerfully as she could; "I would do anything in the world for you, and so would my father, and so would Thames; but he ought, for he's your nephew, you know. He yelled to her, asking her if she wished to have a drink with him, which she refused. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. You dear, dear girl. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. " Neither man spoke.
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