His Majesty's Navy and never as she had seen him last in Monte Carlo, middle-aged, an admiral, with two daughters growing up into tall blonde English girls. Nigel was young, all youth. And she had been young then, too, young save for the stain of Faustino. And Victor was like Nigel, as if Nigel had never grown old at all but simply changed into a son. That was why she loved Victor better than Amadeo, Jim Cain's child.
"Le temps," sang the voice, "est subtil comme un poison; on ne le sent pas, tant qu'on s'aime; mais soudain, un jour, on ne sent plus que lui. Il est autour de nous, il pénétre en nous-même. En nous sans cesse il glisse; dans le miroir il coule; il ride nos pauvres visages; même entre nous son onde coule encore, sans bruit, silencieuse. Oh, mon ami! . . ."
O God! Stop her singing! Send Oreste safely to me!
Odd how you could love in so many ways. Love with Nigel was like the morning sunlight streaming in at the windows. And with Jim Cain it was mixed with pity. Jim Cain, who thought himself a gentleman because he hadn't vitality enough to be positive. It was queer how quickly families went to seed in America, in three generations. Jim thought that doing nothing meant being a gentleman. He was a gentleman, but only by environment and accident. I could have married him instead of Faustino, but I'm glad that I didn't. I should have died of boredom with him. And I could not have betrayed him. I'd have been so sorry for him. Jim would worry a great deal about his honor, because he thought that
