82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. It was eleven o'clock. ‘Parbleu, I hope that I do not have many more times to come in this way to the house,’ she muttered fretfully. I do not want to get only a second-hand flavour of life. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. “We may just as well have our talk afterwards,” she said, “and I need not keep poor Mr.
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