She came in now with an air of reserved solicitude. A white man takes his life in his hands. "I say," retorted Edgeworth Bess, with a very unfeminine imprecation, "I shan't stand any more of that nonsense. If only Gerald would come. Whatever may happen to-morrow I shall be none the better for anticipating its miseries to-day. I tried it myself, Sir. But finding his hints totally disregarded, he, at length, swaggered up to the table, and thrust in a chair. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her.
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