He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. On gaining a stack of chimneys at the back of the house, he came to a pause, and again unmasked his lantern. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom.
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