I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet. . ” Sir John seated himself deliberately. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. How is she?” “My sister is quite well, thank you,” she answered. What could I do at home? The other’s a crumple-up—just surrender. A faint gleam of returning colour gave her at once a more natural appearance.
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