“You love some one else?” he repeated. He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table. I wonder whether you would mind, Lady Ferringhall,” he went on, with a sudden glance at her, “if I tell you that you yourself remind me a great deal more of what she was like then, except of course that your complexion and colouring are altogether different. She counted three on the way to the train and four more on the crowded car that would have gladly taken him to bed with not so much as a word. She fluttered her eyelashes, and adopted the soulful tone that served her well at times. Give this fellow the slip, if you can, Jack.
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