"I know not—and care not," replied Jack. He had spoken impressively, and most likely Anna, had she reappeared, would have met with a fair reception. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. After the first courses however she scarcely noticed him. He is the kind of man who would much prefer a little dust in his eyes. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. Naturally it all came out then. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign.
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