“Ferringhall, were you or were you not dining last night at a certain restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes with—la petite Pellissier?” Now indeed Sir John was moved. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand. Gosse cursed him finely, of course, but there was nothing he could do. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. The girl was flushed with excitement, bright-eyed, and braced for a struggle; her aunt had never seen her looking so fine or so pretty.
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