One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. ‘Precisely. Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed—to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering. Now I do. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. ‘Oh, peste,’ she cried out in distressed tones. Everybody breathed a collective sigh of relief in the neighborhood, no one wanted to see how those kids would grow up. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. “A lady, Dunster. McClintock liked it. And they pay her. Would you stand by me—and her?” “My dear Nigel!” she exclaimed. “You must come home to him at once,” said Miss Stanley. She did not therefore reveal to him that he had guaged her with accuracy.
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