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In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture. She rapped again, louder.
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