“Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?” “I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. “You are absurd,” she declared. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. Look! Is that some one coming out?” The front door of the flats stood open, and through it a woman, slim and veiled, passed on to the pavement and turned with swift footsteps in the opposite direction. I have been the vicomte’s secretary, remember. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self.
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