She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. ‘But―but how can he know?’ His soldier’s instinct overtook Gerald and he dropped all his insouciance in a bang, becoming brisk. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. "And the Marchioness is your daughter," added Thames. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it.
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