She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. ‘Not care? For this he must be an Englishman tout à fait sympathique, and— and I know only. Remember that I’ve seen Brewis Charvill, and I’m well aware of your identity. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male.
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