But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features. Earles regarded it approvingly. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. “I am going,” he said, “to be impertinent. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. The day had become suddenly overcast.
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