’ Gerald smiled. . . ’ ‘You mean the bookroom, miss. Completely overcome by fatigue, with strained muscles, and bruised hands; streaming with perspiration, and with lips so parched that he would gladly have parted with a treasure if he had possessed it for a draught of water; he sank against the wall, and while in this state was seized with, a sudden and strange alarm. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments. ‘You are, I think, a gentleman, no?’ Gerald bowed. ‘What do you mean?’ Gerald grinned. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade.
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