“Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. “Call me Annabel.”
He started back as though he had been shot.
“Annabel?” he exclaimed. “That is your sister’s name.”
“No, mine.”
It came upon him like a flash. Innumerable little puzzles were instantly solved. He could only wonder that this amazing thing had remained so long a secret to him. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Nevertheless it was overwhelming.
“But your hair,” he gasped.
“Dyed!”
“And your figure?”
“One’s corsetière arranges that. My friend, I am only grieved that you of all others should have been so deceived. I have seen you with Anna, and I have not known whether to be glad or sorry. I have been in torment all the while to know whether it was to Anna or to Annabel that you were making love so charmingly. Nigel, do you know that I have been very jealous?”