"Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. To write under a pseudonym!—to be forced to disown his children! He could not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these tales prove successful. Not so bad. You don’t understand, Lucy, they just aren’t like that. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. As a net result she had come to think of all married people much as one thinks of insects that have lost their wings, and of her sisters as new hatched creatures who had scarcely for a moment had wings.
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