"Get in!" she rather commanded. "My dear Jimmy, how nice to find you here, and how nice to drive you at least as far as the entrance!"
As the rebuffed philanthropist accepted he cast a ruthful glance at the solitary figure on the bench.
"Do you see that poor girl over there? She's an American, and in real trouble."
"My dear Jimmy!" His companion's tone left him in no doubt as to her scepticism.
"Oh, I know, I know," he interrupted, "but she's not a fraud. She's the real thing."
They were already gayly whirling away from the sad little figure.
"Did you make her cry?"
"I? Certainly not."
"Then let the man who did wipe her tears away!"
But Bulstrode had seen the face of the girl, and he was haunted by it all day until the Bois and its bright atmosphere became only the setting for an unhappy woman, young and lovely, whom it had been impossible for him to help.