There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. I have a different game to play; and it'll be your own fault, if you don't come off the winner. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart.
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