“If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. He rang the doorbell, even though she had already cracked the door for him. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire. “No, Lucy, because Satan does not exist. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. She went about, intentlooking and self-possessed, trim and fine, concealing her emotions whatever they were, as the realities of her position opened out before her.
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