The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. And now she comprehended that the man (she had never known him by any name) knew she had surprised the look and had not resented it. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. He held her eyes. . You shall hear from me to-morrow. All this was exciting and entertaining. . ’ ‘Oui, mais—safe.
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