She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. This was just what he needed. “You seem to forget that my sister is—married. It is quite light yet, and I want to have one more look at that angry red sun. Dorling said. “What ought you to do?” He began to produce his knowledge of the world for her benefit, jerkily and allusively, and with a strong, rank flavor of “savoir faire. He went on munching his water-chestnuts, and stared at the skyline. Spurling has induced him to sit down again. Montague Hill?” Annabel put her hand suddenly to her throat and steadied herself with the back of a chair. It was his particular hobby, and the leisure he had to apply to it had given him a remarkable appraising eye. Such was the condition of his mind that the danger exhilarated rather than depressed him.
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