“A silly little priestess who knew nothing of life at all until she came to you. Now lend me your own hand. ” He paused, and went on, after a keen look at her: “I had rather gossip to a really intelligent girl than to any man alive. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. “Do you think that it is kind of you, Miss Pellissier,” he said, almost roughly, “to ignore your friends so? In your heart you know quite well that you could pay Sydney or me no greater compliment than to give us just a little of your confidence. How fortunate that she recognises the resemblance. My very sentences stumble and give way. What more could any reasonable man— especially a watchman—desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine.
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