‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. ‘You are really not helping matters, my friend. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. ’ Gerald was staring at her, an arrested expression on his face. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue.
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