. . . But even if the improbable opportunity arose, he
perceived it might still be impossible to produce the Amanda he
loved, the Amanda of the fluttering short skirt and the clear
enthusiastic voice. Because, already he knew she was not the only
Amanda. There was another, there might be others, there was this
perplexing person who had flashed into being at the very moment of
their mutual confession, who had produced the entirely disconcerting
demand that nobody must be told. Then Betty had intervened. But
that sub-Amanda and her carneying note had to be dealt with on the
first occasion, because when aristocrats love they don't care a rap
who is told and who is not told. They just step out into the light
side by side. . . .
"Don't tell any one," she had said, "not for a few days. . . ."
This sub-Amanda was perceptible next morning again, flitting about
in the background of a glad and loving adventuress, a pre-occupied
Amanda who had put her head down while the real Amanda flung her
chin up and contemplated things on the Asiatic scale, and who was
apparently engaged in disentangling something obscure connected with
Mr.
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