She will cry for days and nights together. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. Her heart ached; and that puzzled her. ’ ‘What, even less delightful than Gerald?’ enquired Lucilla, her eyes dancing. It makes no difference. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. When the doctor came in—he had just finished his breakfast—O'Higgins rose and presented his card.
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