Afterwards we started for a motor ride to a place outside Paris for déjeuner, and I suppose the man’s nerve failed him. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. “Are there others like you?” “Yes. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too.
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