Lucy clasped her hands over her ears as it screamed. ’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice. Why had she married him, off-hand, like that? She did not love him, or he knew nothing of love signs. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers. “If only I could afford another!” she thought regretfully. . . Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. And at the sight something leaped within her. It isn't for their sakes, it's for your own. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race.
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