And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. Don’t stand gawping, man. ” Annabel looked intently into her glass. She wanted to cry out upon herself for the uttermost fool in existence. She could have kissed Cathy. So far it had been plain sailing, and it had seemed fairly evident to go on: “I find it very difficult to answer your letter. . If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me.
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