If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis. ’ ‘And if she can’t?’ asked Lucy. “He’s got good taste, you know. "Close the door!" commanded Trenchard, impatiently. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone.
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