For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. All alone; and nobody cared whether he lived or died. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel. The doctor would never betray him.
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