She hated living like that. It never has had. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. She returned to these latter, and at the back of her mind, as she looked them over again, was a very distinct resolve to quote them after the manner of Miss Garvice at the very first opportunity. “Is Lady Lescelles in?” he asked the butler. Perhaps you'll give me in return some token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet again. “Well,” she admitted. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in.
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