Anna found herself next Sydney Courtlaw, with his friend close at hand. ’ ‘Dieu du ciel,’ burst from mademoiselle as she jumped up. “Too bad to keep you waiting,” Annabel exclaimed. She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. It is my business to know most people. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked.
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