‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. "Nothing!" echoed the other, scornfully. Come on. But perhaps you don't know; there was nothing in the pockets. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. Well might she do so, Gerald thought in irritation. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. ” She took the pocket-book and looked up at him with a little impulsive movement. ” Ennison looked steadily at the cigarette which he was tapping on his forefinger.
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