‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. When is the game?\" She did her best to overhaul her own appearance for 63 the greater part of an hour, blotting lips, fluffing the brush over her face. No work that offered was at all of the quality she had vaguely postulated for herself. She controlled herself, and answered meekly, “No. ‘All these soldiers,’ she complained, adding with a sweep of one arm at the major’s dress, ‘all of them in red as you. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. “I was sick of the make-believe.
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