She was looking anxiously at the entrance to the restaurant. ‘None of them means anything to you at all? How odd. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. Her state of mind would have seemed altogether discreditable to her grandmother. "He has robbed him.
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