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urs of chilly idleness otherwise than by dreaming of Lucilla and palms and sunshine. Lucilla of course was always under the palms and th

  • ttitude, though he could not help noticing it, caused hi
  • m no disturbance. He thought casually: “Compared with the men she has met in the great world, I am but a person o
  • f mediocre interest.” The New Year came in, heralded by snow and ice all over Europe. Beneath the steel-blue s
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med long enough he shivered, for the H?tel des Grottes still depended for warmth on wood fires and there was no central heating and the

bath in the famous bathroom received hot water through a gas geyser. And then he wondered whether the time had not come for him to make


his momentous journey to Paris. “I’ve had a letter from Miss Merriton,” said Félise one day, “she asks for news of you and sends y

ou her kind regards.” Martin, who, in shirt-sleeves and apron, was laying tables in the salle-à-manger, flushed at his goddess’s message. “It’s very good of her to remember me.” “Oh, she remembers you right enough,

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” said Félise. That meant that his goddess must have spoken of him, not only once but on various occasions. She had carried him so far in her thoughts as to be interested in his doings. Did her words imply a veiled query as to his journey into Egypt? A lover reads an infinity of significance in his mistress’s most casual utterance, but blandly fails to interpret the obvious tone in which the woman with whom he is not in love makes an acid remark. “Wher