“My dear,” the letter ran, “I have to tell you that your sister Gwen has offended your father very much. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. “You poor thing. He thrust out a rhetorical hand. Nine years ago, I worked in this very house—had a kind indulgent master, whom I robbed—twice robbed, at your instigation, villain; a mistress, whom you have murdered; a companion, whose friendship I have for ever forfeited; a mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken. ‘That’s just it. Figg! In a few minutes, all will be over. Vorsack would just have to live with it.
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