“She’s my wife,” the man muttered. The remainder of dinner was surreal and stilted. . All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. ‘Alors, you make a game with me, I see that. Now, will you do me the honour of lunching with me, Miss Pellissier?” Anna hesitated. She took his hand in hers. Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. There was plenty of sweet water.
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