Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. . Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. So they fenced with smiles. Sheppard remained dissolved in tears. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. ’ ‘I’m coming to that. ’ ‘I don’t, as a matter of fact,’ Gerald said decidedly, a frown creasing his brow.
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