She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. I hope this is all. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. His arm closed in around her middle and she was caught. Nigel Ennison was he. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. He did not disturb any of this litter, but left it as a mark of his prowess. She understood. Monsieur Valade heaved a gusty sigh, and Gerald, with heavy diplomacy and a forced heartiness of manner, turned the subject. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his.
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