He looked at me miserably. “She was to return the sketches to me at Calman’s—the fashionable book-store,... next day.... I never thought that the next day was to be Sunday.... The book-stores of Paris are not open on Sunday—but the War Office is.”
I began to put on my coat.
“And the sketches were asked for?” I suggested—“and you naturally told what had become of them?”
“I refused to name her.”
“Of course; men of our sort can’t do that.”
“I am not of your sort—you know it.”
“Oh yes, you are, my friend—and the same kind of fool, too. There’s only one kind of man in this world.”
He looked at me listlessly.
“So they sent you to a fortress?” I asked.
“To New Caledonia,... four years.... I was only twenty, Scarlett,... and ruined.... I joined Byram in Antwerp and risked the tour through France.”