Paris, 18. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. She would never, never go back. He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. Some had the dignity and the aloofness of a rock in the sea; and others were as the polished pebbles on the sands—one saw the difference of pebble from pebble only by close scrutiny. Lucy was surprised to hear that any party could happen on a week night, but the parents of the house in question were the rich absentee type. Very fascinating, though, trying to analyse the impulse.
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