Passing thought. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. 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.
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