She pointed suddenly at the portrait. ’ Tears glistened in her eyes. She spoke with fluent enthusiasm. I was ready to wager that your name would have marched with one of them. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. Who is the beautiful intruder? And why does she disguise herself as a nun? Why is she involved in an enterprise both foolhardy and dangerous? The girl’s accent suggests an émigré but Mademoiselle insists she is English. “You stupid bitch. And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass.
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