“A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. ‘Civilian peace-keeping forces, you know. ” “Yes,” she said, and abruptly she liked him enormously. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. How I wish I might meet this delightful mystery lady of yours.
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