Well, my dear, it is time you stopped wallowing in your sorrows like a common wretch. A constant attendant at court, he had the mortification to see every one promoted but himself, and thus bewails his ill-luck. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Now lend me your own hand. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. Finally she decided that even for an hotel she must look round, and that meanwhile she would “book” her luggage at Waterloo. ’ She turned and swept away from him, pacing the length of the room to the window Gerald had unshuttered.
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