She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. It grew clear to her that throughout all her wild raid for independence she had done nothing for anybody, and many people had done things for her. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. It was after all a momentary affair. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. “Yes,” said Ann Veronica, “yes,” to his explanation, and saw across the lawn Lady Palsworthy talking to her aunt, and both of them staring frankly across at her and Mr. “Let’s go home.
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