"No, I shan't," replied Rachel, saucily. “What are you doing?” he asked. Then blackness. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. She was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular. Nor, he would wager, had the heroic Monsieur Valade, who had rescued her from that life and brought her to England, taught her in that short time all that Gerald was certain she knew of men. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it.
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