“What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. “And yet I wonder whether the world ever held such another enigma in her sex. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. And then—this sudden thrust. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. Something unpardonable is laid to my charge. Only last night she saw me, and there was horror in her eyes.... I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look.... What the devil is the matter, Dunster?”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you.”
Ennison turned round sharply.
“A lady, Dunster. Who is it?”
The man came a little further into the room.
“Lady Ferringhall, sir.”
“Lady Ferringhall—alone?” Ennison exclaimed.
“Quite alone, sir.”
Ennison was dismayed.