He had sold half a dozen short tales to thirdrate magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished editorial room, of international reputation. Vorsack echoed him. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. There must be real Valjeans, else how could authors write about them? Supposing some day she met one of these astonishing creators, who could make one cry and laugh and forget, who could thrill one with love and anger and tenderness? Most of us have witnessed carnivals. You haven’t had it on your mind all this time?” “I have rather. She kissed him on the bridge of his nose. Gerald saw her eyes change as she recognised him. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. But you have, haven’t you?’ He tutted again.
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