“She has lost something,” he declared, “something which brought the men in crowds around the stage at the ‘Ambassador’s. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. See? You marry me. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words. Just dreamed—and ran away even from my dreams. She loved for him to regale her with the stories of his past, the days of ancient Greece. The first Step towards the Ladder. I do want them. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him.
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