He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. It was never intended that I should marry Monsieur Valade, but after the tragedy—’ her eyes darkening in genuine distress ‘—and that he was the only survivor, he came to me in the convent and married me, and brought me to England. She had fallen asleep. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. “He would never have found you out if you had not personated me. I found him once in my rooms, and I believe that he had a key to my front door. She parted the curtains to find him standing there. Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. You say you love me and want to marry, but those are strong, potent words, words meant to last a lifetime. But Sheppard took no notice of the exclamation.
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