. The hotel on the Peak had the aspect of a fairy castle. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe.
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