“I’m so glad you’re here, Peter,” she said. My dear—I can call you that here, anyhow—I know that. She nodded. The applause was uproarious at the end of the concert. Sir John felt hot and furious. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. "My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other.
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