She fell into another depression, refusing to touch Sebastian or call him husband when he demanded it. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. With a gesture which was without any kind of emotional expression, the manager indicated the silent crumpled figure on the floor and gave the room number.
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