Fetter Lane, on the left, Gray's Inn, on the right, added their supplies. Eight per cent. Sir John followed her gaze, and also saw them. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty. The next weekend arrived and she made her decision.
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