"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. ‘How do you know?’ ‘Exactly,’ pounced Roding bitterly. The manager twisted his moustache. "I was afraid it would be so. ‘And it is perhaps not so necessary that I do so, because Joan has told me of another who may like to say I am the daughter of Mary Remenham. Her name was Rhea. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. “I ought to have done. It ceased to be the symbol of liberty and a remote and quite abstracted person, and became suddenly and very disagreeably the token of a large and portentous body visible and tangible.
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