She shook him off—savagely.
Jean Pauncefote might have been a great lady.
Had she lived seven centuries ago, she would certainly have been fought for, probably have been chosen Queen of Beauty and Love at several tournaments and possibly have made history as, in the absence of her lord, a chatelaine sans peur et sans reproche.
But Fate was against her.
In October 1918 she was still at school. Three months later she had left Philadelphia for ever and was dancing at London night-clubs five nights of the week. Such a début at such a moment into such a world would have demoralized nine girls out of ten. The fair American was not demoralized: but she would not have been human if she had even attempted to swim against the stream.
After all, if we may believe Sir Toby Belch, Feste, the Clown, had ‘a contagious breath.’
What is love? ’tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure. . . .