The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. She saw Lucy darkening her doorstep and stood from the recliner. Amiable and good-looking. His car was there. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. Just dreamed—and ran away even from my dreams.
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