She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered. There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. CHAPTER XXI. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. And there are other guides. I don’t care what else there is in the world. . "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. You see, I’m separated from my wife.
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