If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. ‘Oh, mon dieu. It was bare of any furnishings. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. She watched the people and hummed softly to herself. "Curse me, if I don't think all the world means to cross the Thames this fine night," observed Ben. “You’re still,” he said, “in the educational years.
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