“She has lost something,” he declared, “something which brought the men in crowds around the stage at the ‘Ambassador’s. Just now my best ones are all taken. It was hard to associate her with the stories which he and all Paris had heard of “Alcide. ” She went on, with a desperate attempt to be easy and colloquial: “You see, we were rather good friends, I thought, and now perhaps it will be difficult for us to get back to the old friendly footing. I will take her away and make her serve me as my wife. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. I loved her and made love to her, and I don’t think she quite loved me back in the same way. “And yet I wonder whether the world ever held such another enigma in her sex.
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