To-night she could have hugged both the old maids. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. He was the social order; he was law and wisdom. ‘Playing games to tease me, that’s all he can think of doing. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. ‘Don’t concern yourself. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill.
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