But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Looking at this girl, a sense of failure swept over him. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. When mistress took and died—’ Joan broke off and sighed, moving away to the window. The carte de jour was before Monsieur. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. ‘But if there is one, how in the world did this mystery lady of yours know of it?’ ‘That, Lucy, is precisely the point that has been exercising my mind,’ Gerald said, turning his eyes once more to the group of French exiles in the alcove.
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