He was not, in truth, much of a ladies’ man. Her thoughts were busy with the possibilities of this break in her journey. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. She was in deadly earnest in everything she did. ‘You cannot be André Valade if you tell them I am one of this family. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. In a voice husky with suppressed despair, she answered.
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