“’Ate milk,” said the boy.
She gave him back his handkerchief; and she asked him seriously: “Did you see that man?” And the plumber’s daughter jerked her head, just like a plumber’s daughter, in the direction of the man’s going.
The boy nodded.
“And do you know about images?” she asked him.
“Seen some,” he said, “in the Mooseum.”
“Ever seen an image without a face?”
The boy grinned. “Mother ’as got a bust of Queen Victoria without an ’ead,” he said.
“But I had an image without a face,” she told him softly, “until that man came and put a face to it....”
The boy stared at the door which closed behind the loveliest lady he had ever seen, and he decided that she was probably mad. But Pamela Star, alone again in the tomb of Aram Melekian, knew that she was mad and that the world was mad—the lovely world which could hold the contemptuous spirit of her stern old friend, those ghastly heaps of gold and the living image in her heart.
There will follow this a book—at an as yet uncertain date—telling of Revolution: and therein, of the strange destinies of Hamilton Snagg, a plumber of the Fulham Road, London, S.W.: of Sir Gabriel Silk, Bart., M.P., the brilliant and impassive Jew: and of Michael Paris, the inspired young fanatic of Marylebone: also, among other happenings, of the daring and death of Viscount Tarlyon, the Master of the Legion of Laughter: but more particularly of the marvellous fortunes and cruel deaths of Ivor Pelham Marlay and Pamela Star, his lady.