The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. ‘I take it that you like this great-niece of mine?’ ‘One cannot help but do so. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism. . ” “Of course I am. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense.
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