She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. Well, I told aunt. Just this? Parbleu, did he think this was enough? She did not wish to marry him—at least, not just because he was an Englishman. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her.
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