She found an old drunk wandering the streets. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. “What the devil do you mean by coming for me like that?” Ennison exclaimed, glowering down upon him. But to choose this of all moments. ‘That I do not yet know.
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