"And now," he continued, sternly, "was it your master who has just ridden by?" "No," answered Quilt, sullenly. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. “Rubbish!” he answered. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. "I'm afraid we'll have to dig into his trunk," he said. He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. Once inside, he looked around, worried that his parents would suddenly cancel their trip and return home. She thought of them as fools, but had been sorry to see them go. His face was that of a quick, intelligent-looking boy, with fine hazel eyes, and a clear olive complexion. It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H.
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