‘I rather gathered as much,’ said Miss Froxfield, releasing her hands. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. For every Eden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be a wolf. These and her general preparations had perhaps a certain disproportion. “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t.
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