The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. ‘Inside, miss!’ ‘But what is it?’ ‘Quick! We need the major. Blueskin, you are a true friend. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. “I never dreamt!” she said. And me, I know very much of soldiers. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. Not I.
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