Her complexion had resisted the snow-glare wonderfully; her skin had only deepened its natural warmth a little under the Alpine sun. She could still feel his psychic presence all around her, and she knew he was thinking of her. 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. ‘Rather would I die than fall in with such a plan. But if you wish to do old Wood a friendly turn, you may bring his wife. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. “For no other reason than you talk too much. ‘Jacques, you have been very much my friend. He is an awfully good sort— and now he has come to me to help him if I can.
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