“It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. I am not French in the least. When she got home to her lodgings that evening she reflected with something like surprise upon her half-day’s employment, and decided that it showed nothing more nor less than that Capes was a really very interesting person indeed. Lucy had just began to invoke a solace where John was concerned, doing her best to shelve him as not so special after all. I am certainly no ghost. I haven’t murdered any one, or broken the law in any way that I know of. I saw her face and it was the face that had been hidden from me in dreams, a face very much like yours, Lucia. It was for ever. CHAPTER XXIV.
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