They happen to a man. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. I had a perfect shoal of callers. I have—run away. There was a pause, while the steel grey eyes sliced at her. Neither of them joined in the applause which followed upon her exit. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. You have spoken her name, I think, Marthe. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard.
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