CHAPTER THE THIRD THE MORNING OF THE CRISIS Part 1 Two days after came the day of the Crisis, the day of the Fadden Dance. There was, it might be said, a double illumination. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. ‘None of them means anything to you at all? How odd. “How so?” “I should have shared these things with you earlier, my sweet heart. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. He waved to her. She tried to appear as if she had never been questioned before. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. As he hesitated, unable to make up his mind what to do for the best, a heavy rumbling on the cobbles penetrated his absorption. Hopefully. “FAIL!” she said. ‘Well, water under the bridge is that, miss. John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin.
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