Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. I’m not half smart enough for the West End. Manning,” she said, “I warned you not to idealize me. What a fool I was to separate the two in my mind. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. Can you afford to give this time? There are your own affairs to think of. So you, Jacques, must go and wait for me with the horse. You will stop at once.
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