It's only a gentleman come to offer you his hand. That’s how it takes me. “Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. Breakfast, too, was an impossible occasion. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. You’re just a particular being with nothing else in the world to class with you. The sergeant had not seen it for he understood nothing of what she told him. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. CHAPTER I.
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