It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. 1. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. “The truth!” It was a moment of awkwardness between the two sisters —a moment, too, charged with its own psychological interest, for there were secrets between them which for many months had made their intercourse a constrained and difficult thing. Nevertheless there came a residuum of expostulations. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity. ‘But don’t let me stop you from going to see Charvill. A little kindness would not bring the world tumbling about her ears. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. .
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