She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. ‘Ah. Drummond,” he continued, looking across at his vis-à-vis, “we look to you to give expression to our sentiments. Burn your palette and your easel.
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