Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. The Chinamen raised the limp body and carried it to the hall staircase, up which they mounted laboriously. ” Anna looked up with a doubtful smile of non-recognition. ” Ann Veronica sat down, and Ramage’s eager eyes feasted on her. The eyes, too, though large and bright, and shaded by long lashes, seemed to betoken, as hazel eyes generally do in men, a faithless and uncertain disposition. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better. Anna, my love, you cannot have forgotten so soon. Tell me I haven’t heard. I need a white man, if only to talk to; and it will be a god send to talk to someone of your intelligence. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. She had been to San Francisco, and what I learned about the world was from her.
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