The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. ‘And that Suzanne, the sister of my cousin the vicomte, must choose between Monsieur Charvill and her brother.
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