If it were but the question of his reason for marrying her, the solution would have been simple. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel.
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