“Would YOU like us—if some one told you the bare outline of our story?— and what we are doing?” “I shouldn’t mind,” said Ann Veronica. Arrived there, the porter thundered at the massive door of the Lodge, which was instantly opened—Shotbolt's note having been received just before. She is your sister, and God knows I wish her none. Sir John and Annabel seated themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a waiter. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared. I defy you to explain it away. But I can easily bring in a sing-song girl to play for you. So long as they're about, I'll always be rewriting them and wasting my time. To-night she could have hugged both the old maids. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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