“Very good,” he said. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. You keep on coming truer, after you have seemed to come altogether true. She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered. “You’re burning up. Once a thriving town before the Pestilence, most of the buildings and the piers had been destroyed or burned.
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