It’s artificially chance. ’” “Is ‘Alcide’ still in Paris?” Ennison asked. ” She said mournfully. Then Capes flittered to the hearthrug and poked the fire, stood up, and turned about. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. ’ She frowned suddenly. “I don’t mind, of course, your seeing her sometimes, still there are differences— differences in social atmospheres.
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