‘This is not love, Marthe. E. I knew him in spite of his dress. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Anna watched her with curious eyes. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. Gerald swore. Agents were dispersed in all directions—offers the most tempting held out to induce the wavering to join the Chevalier's standard. With something near to horror they found themselves thus confronted. Mr. Well, let's beat it to the hotel.
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