‘In the bookroom, sir,’ answered the man, his eyes round as they took in the furious beauty at the visitor’s side. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room rushed to the window with a torch. His face was downcast. She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood. He had more time for her. " "What for?" demanded the turnkey. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. " He laughed and followed her into the hotel.
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