’ ‘I am afraid that there is,’ Gerald told her evenly. “You cannot say that you did not expect me,” he answered. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him. “Mr. ” She replied with a rehearsed answer, “I was told that my real mother died the day I was born. ” Sir John acknowledged the introduction without cordiality. Then he understood. Sheppard, eagerly. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. “You will be so late. But it is all very different.
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