One peculiarity she did not fail to notice. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. “Well, I don’t want you to talk to him,” he said, very firmly. “This,” he said, and then: “No! Is this sweeter? Very well. ” A little sobbing cry from Annabel arrested Sir John’s attention.
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