And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. He kissed her ardently. “He sees through it all. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. They turned the corner that joined Michelle's street to her own. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour.
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