She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. And in the vestry was the sword of monsieur le major. She took up a book and threw it down again. “You seem to forget that my sister is—married. She moaned as she touched him. She saw his face change, how he regretted. ” Her mind diverged to other aspects, and another type of womanhood. " "Wrong? What the devil could be wrong?" McClintock had demanded, irascibly.
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