Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. Then for a time she sat very still. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. They traveled to distant places, had an apartment in Constantinople and a villa in Paris. But probably not the truth. “I have no wish,” he said, “to altogether ignore the fact that you are my wife’s sister, and have therefore a certain claim upon me. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. ‘Too late by the time I realised to what a dunderhead I’d pledged my friendship. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound.
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