" "There was Father," suggested Angelina gently. " "You flatter me," smiled Sir James. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. " "Only as a brother?" persisted Kneebone. The father was a madman. It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. A boy like John’s dashing friend David Mitchell, someone who shares your love of academics. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence.
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