He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington's courier was here yesterday. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. But Miss Miniver was highly unsatisfactory. She made a slow tour of the front of the house without success, and then started back along the rooms behind, dragging open the drapes each time to get just enough light to recognise what was on the walls.
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