Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. But she made a pretence of struggling a little, for it would be out of character for her not to do so and she did not want to arouse his suspicions. He is Jacques. ‘Their lawyers are working tirelessly, but they report that the situation is daily worsening. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. On the same peg and evidently belonging to it was a black velvet Zouave jacket. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. He had been back for two weeks during some pleasant weather in July. It must be somewhere hereabouts.
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