He lives in constant dread of a reappearance of ‘La Belle Alcide,’ and hearing it said that she is his wife’s sister. As he looked in this direction, Wild gave him a significant wink, the meaning of which he was not slow to comprehend. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. ” Her eyes glinted, macabre. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees.
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