He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. “It seems so unfair,” she said, “to take all you offer me and give so little in return. She formed a wild resolution, and, lest she should waver from it, she set about at once to realize it. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. I think I know where I am puzzling you now——” “Then for Heaven’s sake be merciful,” he exclaimed. But the possible attitude of her father she had still to face. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes.
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