"The Chevalier shall hear of this," whispered the woollen-draper. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him. It was easy to discover that he was a knave, but equally easy to perceive that he was a pleasant fellow; a combination of qualities by no means of rare occurrence. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. Of course, it really signified nothing in this careless part of the world that she was travelling alone.
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