Lucy could see her striding down a Parisian catwalk quite easily. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. Certain reserves went down on both sides. Blood dripped down one side of her forehead. And life is much the same, whether taken in battle, on the couch, or by the road-side. One day it was gone. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again.
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