Manning’s letter. Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin. ‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped. And, thrusting a piece of iron into his mouth, he forced him out of the room. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. "In the mean time, with your permission, I'll just make a few minutes of our conversation.
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