Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. She seemed to think he was merely the paymaster, handing over the means of her freedom. " "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. Her new husband was pleased to watch the astonished look on her face as tray after tray appeared on the grand table, each better than the next. “Some day you will be my wife, and it would not be well for either of us to remember that in these unhappy days you and I were separated. “I will come—with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. “It’s the spring,” he said.
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