“It is true,” he said, “that I was dining last night at a restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes, and it is true that my companion was a young lady whose name is Pellissier. His physical body was predictably paralyzed with shyness and fear of rejection, barely soothed with a series 51 of blatantly direct requests and compliments. While he was thus musing, two horsemen rode past him; and, proceeding to a little distance, stopped likewise. She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth. Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. I could never make you understand.
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