A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. A mutual recognition took place at the same instant between the stranger and this individual. But—he was cleverer than any of you. Sir Rowland then fell. 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. “Not for these things, O Ann Veronica, have you revolted,” it said; “and this is not your appropriate purpose. “I don’t know. Leonardo he was my—’ ‘Don’t say it,’ Gerald cut in hoarsely. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. And he could not return this love.
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