Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. She was
wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John
would not be home for several hours at least.
"I am delighted to see you, Mr. Ennison," she said, letting her
fingers rest in his. "Do come and cheer me up. I am bored to
distraction."
He took a seat by her side. He was looking pale and ill. There were
shadows under his eyes. He returned her impressive greeting almost
mechanically.
"But you yourself," she exclaimed, glancing into his face, "you too
look tired. You poor man, what have you been doing to yourself?"
"Nothing except travelling all night," he answered. "I am just back
from Paris. I am bothered. I have come to you for sympathy, perhaps
for help."
"You may be sure of the one," she murmured. "The other too if it is
within my power."
"It is within yours--if anybody's," he answered. "It is about your
sister, Lady Ferringhall."
Annabel gave a little gasp. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the
lines of her mouth hardened. The change in her face was not a pleasant
one.
"About my sister," she repeated slowly.
Her tone should have warned him, but he was too much in earnest to
regard it.
"Yes. You remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?"
"Yes."
"And you knew, of course, that we were old friends?"
"Indeed!"
"Lady Ferringhall, I love your sister."
"You what?" she repeated incredulously.
"I love your sister."
Lady Ferringhall sat with half closed eyes and clenched teeth. Brute!
Fool! To have come to her on such an errand. She felt a hysterical
desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole
miserable truth. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost
superhuman.
"But--your people!" she gasped. "Surely Lady Ennison would object,
even if it were possible. And the Duke, too--I heard him say that a
married secretary would be worse than useless to him."
"The difficulties on my own side I can deal with," he answered. "I am
not dependent upon any one. I have plenty of money, and the Duke will
not be in the next Cabinet. My trouble is with your sister."
Lady Ferringhall was conscious of some relief.
"She has refused to listen to you?"
"She has behaved in a most extraordinary manner," he answered. "We
parted--that night the best of friends. She knew that I cared for her,
she had admitted that she cared for me. I suppose I was a little
idiotic--I don't think we either of us mentioned the future, but it
was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with
her. When I went I was refused admittance. I have since received a
most extraordinary letter from her. She offers me no explanation,
permits me absolutely no hope. She simply refuses to see or hear from
me again. I went to the theatre that night. I waited for her at the
back. She saw me, and, Lady Ferringhall, I shall never forget her look
as long as I live. It was horrible. She looked at me as though I were
some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in
the calendar. I could not have spoken to her. It took my breath away.
By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. My letters are
returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the
doorstep."