“What do you mean, Annabel? You only knew Mr. Ennison slightly——”
There was a dead silence in the little room. Anna sat with the face of a Sphinx—waiting. Annabel thought, and thought again.
“I knew Mr. Ennison better than I have ever told you,” she said slowly.
“Go on!”
“You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. Nigel Ennison was he.”
Anna stood up. Her cheeks were aflame. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion.
“Go on!” she commanded. “Let me know the truth.”
Annabel looked down. It was hard to meet that gaze.
“Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered.