But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. “Sir John is not at all that sort. “I am so sorry. If I do not look after her, she has no one. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. If it is that I am in the least French, and that you do not like it—’ ‘I don’t like it,’ snapped the old man. He hesitated. Some day I may forgive you; but not now.
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