The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. He built her the most beautiful castle 242 in the world in the desert, carving fountains where real water ran and gardens in a place where no plant had ever bloomed. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. “Look round the table,” she said. “Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. He has a heart that is easily broken. "Right," said the Master, "I didn't think of her. "It's you, Jack, who are persuading my brother to do wrong. Until the age of five she adored him. If I might take the liberty, Sir John,” he added, with a humorous gleam in his eyes, “I should like to congratulate you upon your tie.
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