‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. He handed her a cheque for thirty-one pounds, ten shillings, and read the agreement through to her. He was plainly attired in a riding-dress and boots of the period, and wore a hanger by his side. It was his purpose to complete four or five stories before he sent any away. Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released.
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