Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. Return to him, I say—" "I can't," replied Jack, doggedly. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. “What did it matter?” she cried. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. I am totally like this on my own. If he wants you, let him get you.
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