She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. Peste, where was her handkerchief? She remembered then that it had been lost in the struggle with Gerald. ’ She pronounced it with a French inflexion, but Gerald understood her to mean the English name he knew. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. You can pull it over on everybody else, Lucy, but not on me. The day comes when you shall regret how you have spoken to me.
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