But suppose I go?” “Now, Veronica! No, no. He was a business man, pure and simple, his eyes were fastened always upon the practical side of life. When next he asked for her, some twelve hours later, he was told that Mademoiselle had left. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. Even now she was dazed. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. You don’t understand, Lucy, they just aren’t like that. She looked at him curiously. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. .
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