Lucy looked at her reflection with a measure of awe. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. She heard this standard expression of a strong soul wrung with a critical coldness that astonished herself. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. ‘Ah, yes? To what do I pretend?’ ‘That,’ Gerald said regretfully, ‘I have not yet been able to fathom.
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