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By this time, she had so far succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice—if sorrowfully, still composedly. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. Placing a piece of money in Morgan's hands, he hurried out of the churchyard. Fearful that she had given herself away, she sank back down onto her stool. He was mad. She had asked about that already, and her father had replied, evasively: “We’ll have to see about that, little Vee; we’ll have to see about that. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. I’m not such a bad sort. She may address me as “Grandfather” if she chooses, since I’m obliged to accept her in that capacity. He was also, had she known it, more than a little insincere.
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