And now she comprehended that the man (she had never known him by any name) knew she had surprised the look and had not resented it. Lucy felt herself go very red in the cheeks and lowered her hand rather slowly. Gold-handled, too. A queer game this: he could not move directly as in an ordinary case of manhunt. Most people, every one I know else, seem to have mated with foreigners and to talk uneasily in unfamiliar tongues, to be afraid of the knowledge the other one has, of the other one’s perpetual misjudgment and misunderstandings. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. Their flitting hands were always touching. Pancras,” she directed, promptly.
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