They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. Also she had tried him as a dragoman and as a gendarme, which seemed the most suitable of all to his severely handsome, immobile profile. “It’s the spring,” he said. It will not cost you more than six hundred to reach your destination. He's young and sound. She wants that and needs it more than anything else in the world. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. .
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