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One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. For fully five minutes he lay quite motionless. Why not? Quite willing. Their eyes met, and his expressed perplexity and curiosity.
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