” Sir John clutched at the table with both hands. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. "Promise me that. "What the devil makes you out so late? And what has happened to you, man, eh?—you seem in a queer plight. Jeez! It was about time. Man's fate is in his own hands. Small, but eminently serviceable. It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions.
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