Darrell attempted to reply. “I thought I saw her in town to-day,” he said. “About two years ago. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. “Did you tell him?” Capes smiled faintly. ‘You know perfectly well that she is the daughter of the Comtesse de St Erme. She felt the whack from about six feet away, kitty corner. "Oh, yes!—for always!" He took her hands and pressed them upon his thrumming heart; and in this attitude they remained for some time. ‘This is not love, Marthe. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing.
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