Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. Bête, she told herself fiercely. Sheppard, which she gratefully declined. We always go out to dinner on holidays. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy. Still, it was rather terrible to suspect that one had fallen from grace, but nevertheless the thing was possible.
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