She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. ” “Then how have you managed?” “Bother!” said Ann Veronica to herself, and tried not to look guilty. “And yet in a very few weeks I shall have done with it all. He suggested they take the remains of the household to his country estate, where he could at least hunt through the winter to provide them venison and grouse. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. ” She looked into her glass. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and seductive music from her lips. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. This lover of yours—” “He doesn’t know!” cried Ann Veronica.
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