“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. “Yes,” she said, “that is what we ought to do. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. He would require things of her, and she would be passionately concerned to meet his requirements. Her head dipped deeply into the current, and she narrowly escaped being swamped. ” “Lucy Albert, sir. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother.
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