The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. She forced herself not to think of John. Only she is not Madame Valade at all. . ’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly. ” “My God!” said Manning, in a stage-aside. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. ’ ‘Excellent,’ Gerald had approved.
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