"The Chevalier shall hear of this," whispered the woollen-draper. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. ‘She’s little more than a schoolgirl, just out. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. “It’s your birthday today, May Day. ‘Would that your mistress were as trusting.
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