‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. “She must,” said Mr. B. . “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. Also he is ugly. Leonardo was to me perhaps like a father, not a lover as you think. She did not twitch. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love.
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