.

THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL.
Armand never could say definitely afterwards whither he went when he left the Square du Roule that evening.

No doubt he wandered about the streets for some time in an absent, mechanical way, paying no heed to the passers-by, none to the direction in which he was going.
His mind was full of Jeanne, her beauty, her courage, her attitude in face of the hideous bloodhound who had come to pollute that charming old-world boudoir by his loathsome presence.

He recalled every word she uttered, every gesture she made.
He was a man in love for the first time--wholly, irremediably in love.
I suppose that it was the pangs of hunger that first recalled him to himself.

It was close on eight o'clock now, and he had fed on his imaginings--first on anticipation, then on realisation, and lastly on memory--during the best part of the day.