She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. She shut the door behind her. Alas! that the punishment of his offences should fall on her head. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. Also she had tried him as a dragoman and as a gendarme, which seemed the most suitable of all to his severely handsome, immobile profile. In his way he was critical. Almost the best of all. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. Before the full sentence was carried into execution, he was taken into a small room adjoining the court. CHAPTER XXIII.
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