Celeste he knew. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. I must stay a minute longer, if only to see you smile. When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind. He felt his heart beat faster and faster—his self-restraint slipping away.
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