There was a long silence between them. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations. “Women would—they DO have far more power than they think, as influences, as inspirations. You are NOT going to that ball!” Ann Veronica tried a less genial, more dignified note. But all of that was forgotten. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. “Anna,” he pleaded, “be merciful.
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