It was you, of course, whom he wanted. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. It’s odd, but nothing but cliche seems to meet this case. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. ’ Gerald raised his brows. ’ ‘I find that difficult to believe,’ snapped the general, jerking to and fro as his agitation mounted. You’ll never even see me again, for that 268 matter. . ’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them.
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