You're not the romantic type; you don't look like some one in an
old picture; you haven't brought down thirty German aeroplanes or
thereabouts, and won every war medal the French can give and the name of
Ace. No; you look like a--a correct bulldog; and winning an occasional
polo cup is about your limit. Even if it hadn't been settled before you
met her, you wouldn't have stood a chance."
There were times when I prayed never to see Esme Falconer again. There
were other times when I knew I would drag myself round the world--yes,
on my crutches!--if at the end of the journey I could see her for an
instant, a long way off. I could see that my despondency was driving
Dunny to distraction. He evolved the theory that I was going into a
decline.
Then came the afternoon that made history. I was sitting at my window.
The trees seemed specially green, the sky specially blue, the lake
specially bright. I was feeling stronger and was glumly planning a move
to Paris when I saw an automobile speed up the poplared walk toward
Raincy-la-Tour.
Rip-snorting and chugging, the thing executed a curve before the
chateau, and then, hugging the side of the lake, advanced, obviously
toward my humble abode.
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