You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. She loved to be told to do things. It is the worst of talk under such social circumstances that it is always getting cut off so soon as it is beginning; and I went home that afternoon feeling I had said nothing—literally nothing—of the things I had meant to say to you and that were coursing through my head. What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. Perhaps her granddaughter might marry his grandson. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned.
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