pallor of face. That was Carlos Riego.

Well, that is my yesterday of romance, for the many things that have
passed between those times and now have become dim or have gone out
of my mind. And my day before yesterday was the day on which I, at
twenty-two, stood looking at myself in the tall glass, the day on which
I left my home in Kent and went, as chance willed it, out to sea with
Carlos Riego.

That day my cousin Rooksby had become engaged to my sister Veronica, and
I had a fit of jealous misery. I was rawboned, with fair hair, I had a
good skin, tanned by the weather, good teeth, and brown eyes. I had not
had a very happy life, and I had lived shut in on myself, thinking
of the wide world beyond my reach, that seemed to hold out infinite
possibilities of romance, of adventure, of love, perhaps, and stores of
gold. In the family my mother counted; my father did not. She was the
daughter of a Scottish earl who had ruined himself again and again. He
had been an inventor, a projector, and my mother had been a poor beauty,
brought up on the farm we still lived on--the last rag of land that had
remained to her father. Then she had married a good man in his way; a
good enough catch; moderately well off, very amiable, easily influenced,
a dilettante, and a bit of a dreamer, too. He had taken her into the
swim of the Regency, and his purse had not held out. So my mother,
asserting herself, had insisted upon a return to our farm, which had
been her dowry. The alternative would have been a shabby, ignominious
life at Calais, in the shadow of Brummel and such.

My father used to sit all day by the fire, inscribing "ideas" every now
and then in a pocket-book. I think he was writing an epic poem, and I
think he was happy in an ineffectual way. He had thin red hair, untidy
for want of a valet, a shining, delicate, hooked nose, narrow-lidded
blue eyes, and a face with the colour and texture of a white-heart
cherry. He used to spend his days in a hooded chair. My mother managed
everything, leading an out-of-door life which gave her face the colour
of a wrinkled pippin. It was the face of a Roman mother, tight-lipped,
brown-eyed, and fierce. You may understand the kind of woman she
was from the hands she employed on the farm. They were smugglers and
night-malefactors to a man--and she liked that. The decent, slow-witted,
gently devious type of rustic could not live under her. The neighbours
round declared that the Lady Mary Kemp's