So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. Anna was not “Alcide” of the “Ambassador’s,” whose subtly demure smile and piquant glances had called him to her side from the moment of their first meeting. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. He was mad. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. ” She shrugged her shoulders and led him towards a small recess. Her eyes quizzed the major.
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