Anna and her escort exchanged glances. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. ‘What has that to say to anything?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ smiled Lucy nervously. He gently took the roses from her and laid them on the pillow. He impetuously grasped a hold of her hand, looking for a callous. He and her father shook hands manfully. Her complexion had resisted the snow-glare wonderfully; her skin had only deepened its natural warmth a little under the Alpine sun. So here is your chance, Mademoiselle Charvill.
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