It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. “It may be more difficult than you think,” she said. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. “My God!” he said again. Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect.
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