She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. “Do you want to ruin me? I shall walk back. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. “Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed. “Nobody understands them, of course, but we all look as though we did. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. John spent the first weeks of summer backpacking in Europe, and she heard occasional news from Michelle of his whereabouts.
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