‘Do that again,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll make you sorry you ever came to England. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. Do not imagine that I cannot do so, as well as I can this Gérard. Kneebone, who was on the point of departing.
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