His hands were exploring her once again in the car. She donned her gloves. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. Jonathan cast a hasty glance around, to see that all was properly arranged for his purpose; placed a chair with its back to the door; disposed the lights on the table so as to throw the entrance of the room more into shadow; and then flung himself into a seat to await Sir Rowland's arrival. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. And now I find, when it is too late, that I might have deserved you—that I am as well born as Thames Darrell.
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