And nearly all these things were fearfully ill-paid. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Soldiers were stationed at different points of the street to keep off the mob, and others were riding backwards and forwards to maintain an open space for the passage of the procession. Set on unravelling her secrets, Gerald pursues every possible clue—much to the indignation of Mademoiselle. ‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it.
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