The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. I’ve been wondering where she got her dogged will, and that hot-headed adventurous spirit, for it wasn’t from either Mary or Nicholas, that’s sure. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. So, when I tell you she loves you, I know. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes.
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