They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. From the portals of the hotel—scarcely fifty yards from the canal—one saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. “Vee,” she said, “come home.
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