Then Valade—was the man as big a fool as Nicholas?—tried again. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. One realized indeed then where the differences lay; the tender curves about Anna’s mouth transformed into hard sharp lines in Annabel’s, the eyes of one, truthful and frank, the other’s more beautiful but with less expression—windows lit with dazzling light, but through which one saw—nothing. He could not understand how men could live ignoring this one predominant interest, this wonderful research into personality and the possibilities of pleasing, these complex, fascinating expeditions that began in interest and mounted to the supremest, most passionate intimacy. “I am sorry for the way I acted, Lucy. . '—'Pretty well,' says I; 'you're not badly off at the Friars, for that matter. “You are unjust and quixotic, Anna, you have no right to treat any one as you are treating me. " To-morrow! She never beheld it. 1. Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me.
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