It was everyone's favorite meal. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. ‘Went to the dogs, did Jarvis, after Mary died. “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. Don't suppose," she added, with a scornful glance at her helpmate, "that I would pay him the compliment of thinking he could possibly be the father of such a boy as you. “In self-defence I had to,” she answered. Nobody who cared. Nevertheless, she could not prevent a rising excitement as the dawn of the new life drew near to her—a thrilling of the nerves, a secret and delicious exaltation above the common circumstances of existence. "But trifle with mo no longer.
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