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She hit the villain with it. Anna and her escort exchanged glances. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. And it is not at all his affair. . Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount.
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