Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. ’ She paused, struggling for the word. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. ‘You know perfectly well that she is the daughter of the Comtesse de St Erme.
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