“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Under the somewhat trying incandescent light her cheeks pleaded guilty to a recent use of the powder puff. “Morning, Mom. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Chapter XXI HER SISTER’S SECRET “I think,” Lady Ferringhall said, “that you are talking very foolishly. It was dawn: Cathy would soon be off to the restaurant and Larry off to paint a house.
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