She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. She saw how overworked he was. As soon as they had got out, the vehicle was drawn up at the back of a tree near the cage. “You do not quite understand,” she said gently. He smothered it down with such a good will that the reaction set his heart to pounding. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. A physiognomist, indeed, would have likened him to that crafty animal, and it must be owned the general formation of his features favoured such a comparison. Mr.
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