When next he asked for her, some twelve hours later, he was told that Mademoiselle had left. He was a business man, pure and simple, his eyes were fastened always upon the practical side of life. “I’m inclined to think, Stanley, myself that as a matter of fact it was the expurgated Romeo and Juliet did the mischief. It's a long time since we met, eight years and more. You know you do, Annabel. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. She went to the post-office and drew out and sent off her money to Ramage. I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing. She could hear their footsteps upon the pavement. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. "Is it poison?" she asked.
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