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“Why not?” Lady Lescelles answered. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. She did not resist him, she could not. She ran away after she had divined that Gianfrancesco had remarried. By chance I went to one who had known you in Paris. She further suspected that he might find a servant to dally with in the meantime, if he had not already. Through that she had to go. But I liked to say it. He had already spoken his mind on the folly of allowing a clearly dangerous female to escape a second time. It’s not a bit of good pretending there’s any Higher Truth or wonderful principle in this business. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. Like a nightmare memory that returned again and again to haunt her. ‘Did you sigh and flutter your eyelashes?’ ‘Certainly I did.
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