She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. Everything goes—the copra for oil, the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon. She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. En tout cas, no one has asked you to puzzle out anything at all. But I don’t suppose you can understand. “I am sure,” she said, “that you mean to stay until you are turned out.
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