against seeking a woman's motive. Firstly, she probably has none.
Secondly, should she have one she will certainly have a counterfeit,
which she will dangle before your eyes, and you will seize it.

Dormer Colville might almost be considered to belong to the world of
which Captain and Mrs. Duncan were such brilliant ornaments. But he
did not so consider himself. For their world was essentially
British, savoured here and there by a French count or so, at whose
person and title the French aristocracy of undoubted genuineness
looked askance. Dormer Colville counted his friends among these
latter. In fact, he moved in those royalist circles who thought
that there was little to choose between the Napoleonic and the
Orleanist regime. He carefully avoided intimacy with Englishmen
whose residence in foreign parts was continuous and in constant need
of explanation. Indeed, if a man's life needs explanation, he must
sooner or later find himself face to face with some one who will not
listen to him.

Colville, however, knew all about Captain Duncan, and knew what was
ignored by many, namely, that he was nothing worse than foolish. He
knew all about Miriam, for he was in the confidence of Mrs. St.
Pierre Lawrence. He knew that that lady wondered why Miriam
preferred Farlingford to the high-bred society of her own circle at
Royan and in Paris.

He thought he knew why Loo Barebone showed so little enterprise.
And he was, as Madame de Chantonnay had frequently told him, more
than half a Frenchman in the quickness of his intuitions. He picked
a flower for his buttonhole from the garden of the "Black Sailor,"
and set forth the morning after his interview with Captain Clubbe