Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. She became more assertive, more defiant. “I say!” he said, without any movement. “How dare you? You are trying to kidnap my babies!” Clotilde demanded. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket. It made her laugh, which in turn made him laugh. “My dear man,” she exclaimed, “wasn’t that a foregone conclusion?” “You treat the matter lightly,” he continued. ’ He let her go.
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