Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. His shadowy eyes revealed two things: that he was oversensitive in his extreme intelligence and that he suffered an acute insomnia. After all there are other things. He, who had faced the gale, would have been instantly stifled. So, very carefully, he raised her in his arms and carried her to her bed. And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. It was the first—and the last! At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr. Stanley had never thought out. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers.
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