But he held the smile until she turned away from the curtain. ‘Lord, no! I’ve a better regard for my skin, I thank you. D'ye hear. ” Nigel Ennison looked up with a little start. Yes—as he would have liked. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. “A modern girl does understand these terms. How do you like the story?” “Go on,” said Ann Veronica, a little hoarsely, “tell me all of it.
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