Her stifled misery had betrayed her. ’ Madame ventured a glance up at his face, and fluttered her lashes. On the envelope was written— Sydney Courtlaw, Esq. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight.
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