“See you to-night, I suppose?” He sauntered off. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Queer world. A crowd was collected round the fellow, who was rapidly disposing of his stock. He rolled onto his belly, freeing himself from her hands, pushing her away. Move. She was nearly too giddy still to answer him. He might be unfortunate, but he would scarcely be a fool. He touched her breast as if he was testing the waters of a cold lake. I want to boast myself. It was from Brendon. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. “It was,” she admitted.
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