He knew her
strange, passionate nature so well, and knew that reserve which lurked
behind her frank, open ways.
The had always been together, these two, for their parents had
died when Armand was still a youth, and Marguerite but a child. He,
some eight years her senior, had watched over her until her marriage;
had chaperoned her during those brilliant years spent in the flat of
the Rue de Richelieu, and had seen her enter upon this new life of
hers, here in England, with much sorrow and some foreboding.
This was his first visit to England since her marriage, and
the few months of separation had already seemed to have built up a
slight, thin partition between brother and sister; the same deep,
intense love was still there, on both sides, but each now seemed to
have a secret orchard, into which the other dared not penetrate.
There was much Armand St. Just could not tell his sister; the
political aspect of the revolution in France was changing almost every
day; she might not understand how his own views and sympathies might
become modified, even as the excesses, committed by those who had been
his friends, grew in horror and in intensity.
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