fringe—and she sits taking it all down in short-hand, never raising her head, day after day—.

54

Her hair is pretty—that silky sort of nut brown with an incipient wave in it—her head is set on most gracefully, I must admit, and the complexion is very pale and transparent—But what a firm mouth!—Not cold though—only firm. I have never seen her smile. The hands are well shaped really—awfully well shaped, if one watches them—How long would it take to get them white again I wonder? She has got good feet, too, thin like the hands—. How worn her clothes look—does she never have a new dress—?

Yes Burton, I will see Madame de Clerté—.

Solonge de Clerté is a philosopher—she has her own aims—but I do not know them.

"Writing a book, Nicholas?" There was the devil of a twinkle in her eye—"There is a poor boy wounded in the leg who would make a perfect secretary if you are not satisfied."

I grew irritated—.

"I am quite satisfied"—we heard the noise of the typing machine from beyond—these modern doors allow nothing to be unknown.

"Young, is she?" Madame de Clerté asked turning her glance in that direction.55

55

"I don't know and don't care—she types well"—.

"Hein?"

She saw that I was becoming enraged.—My dinners are good and the war is not yet over—.

"We shall all be terribly interested—yes—when we read the result—."

"Probably"—.

Then she told me of complications occurring about Coralie's husband.

"Of an insanity to attempt the three at once" she sighed—.

And now I can turn to my journal again—Good God—the last pages have all been about Miss Sharp—ridiculous, exasperating Miss Sharp! did I write ridiculous?—No—it is I who am ridiculous—I shall go for a drive—!

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