Maybe she really was a French countess or somepun'. All evening,
sitting by the window, he was comforted as he heard her move
about her room. He had a friend. He had started that great
work of making friends--well, not started, but started
starting--then he got confused, but the idea was a flame to warm
the fog-chilled spaces of the London street.
At his Cattermole breakfast he waited long. She did not come.
Another day--but why paint another day that was but a smear of
flat dull slate? Yet another breakfast, and the lady of mystery
came. Before he knew he was doing it he had bowed to her, a
slight uneasy bend of his neck. She peered at him, unseeing,
and sat down with her back to him.
He got much good healthy human vindictive satisfaction in
evicting her violently from the French chateau he had given her,
and remembering that, of course, she was just a "fool freak
Englishwoman--prob'ly a bloomin' stoodent" he scorned, and so
settled _her!_ Also he told her, by telepathy, that her new
gown was freakier than ever--a pale-green thing, with large
white buttons.
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