Celeste introduced him to me—oh, how Celeste hated me! She must have known. Imbecile. Every moment. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. He had quite enough to see to and worry about in the City without their doing things. She too had seen. " "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard.
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