Gerald realised Lucy had taken the hint, for she dragged her betrothed towards the door. Sebastian observed coolly, savoring the outline of Lucy’s feral figure hunching over Michelle’s gradually diminishing body. “A glass slipped from the table,” he explained. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. I sha’n’t care a rap if we can never marry. The immense disillusionment that awaited him! The devastating disillusionment! She had a vague desire to run after him, to state her case to him, to wring some understanding from him of what life was to her. Sebastianus claimed to have met her back in Mantua after the betrothal. He, for his part, was trying to grasp the series of unexpected reactions that had so wrecked their tete-a-tete. Gerald perhaps would know how to find him.
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