‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. John picked it up and put it in her hands. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. And a time will come, Veronica, mark my words, a time will come when you will bless me for my firmness to-night. The vast mirrored chamber, with its four little square window bays, two either side of the large raised dais that led to the French doors, was very full of company for the start of the Little Season. Is this man Hill dead?” She shook her head. That held his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. Then suddenly the curtain would fall.
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