A new restlessness seemed to have stolen in upon her. “I had no idea that it was so abominably late. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. ‘Come, mademoiselle. But you have looked after me very well, and we will not allow this Gérard, who makes me all the time excessively angry, you understand, to make trouble between us. ’ ‘Of course she could not have known to whom they belonged. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield.
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