His brother had gone to Birkenhead as he had been ordered. His little brother! Carver smiled at his own reflection. Trust Paul to do as he was told, he always did. He was in Birkenhead, and from there would be sent somewhere else, and from there to the next place, until he had got the Price girl out of his system. Not that his brother could be entirely blamed should that take some time. Carver thrust a gold tie pin into the silk. From what he could remember of that face swathed in shadow she was quite a pretty little thing, and the hair . . . His fingers fondled the silk. The hair had been the silver of moonlight. Had she been of their class, with the same breeding, she would have made an acceptable wife. Supposing, of course, she brought money. But she had neither of those things. All she had was her beauty. Slipping his arms into his coat, Carver smoothed it over his hips. But, by God, she had that, and for many a man it would have been enough. But it was not enough, not enough for her to become a Felton.
