She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. “Certainly. To-night we leave for Marseilles. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. Why ain’t you gorn? Seems to me I had ought to arrest you. Quarter-staves, bludgeons, brown-bills, lanterns, swords, and sconces were alike shivered; and, to judge from the sullied state of their habiliments, the claret must have been tapped pretty freely. ” She looked at him with uplifted eyebrows—a look of whimsical incredulity. In a very definite sense we are in the wrong —hopelessly in the wrong. She longed to enjoy human food as he did. “If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. My business is with Lady Trafford. ” She could not go on, for she was laughing and crying at the same time.
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