“A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. Just because I attempt to seek the worst of men to kill, it doesn’t make it right. I am shockingly poor. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. There was a brief pause, a crowded pause, between them. So he bring me to see this Suzanne, who were staying at an inn nearby. You will not find it else. Sydney sprang up. A lucky escape. He would pick a random member of the ever-shifting household for the sake of example. She was chic, distinguished, unusual.
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