Then she looked up at Brendon. "You've been quizzing my friend Kent, I perceive, in your Burlington Gate. ’ ‘Do you indeed?’ rejoined the old lady, twinkling at him, and urging him towards the door. Her little white hand stole across the table. I mean Miss Charvill no harm. She had been so young then. I could never make you understand. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll.
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