Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. He had done this a dozen times on the way from his office. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. I want to know who sent you those. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. She closed her eyes more vividly to recall some line which had carried the blot. Finally Lucy replied.
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