Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you. Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever. The shot had taken effect upon the waterman who rowed the chase. But you don’t particularly want to do the job that sets you free—for its own sake. “I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. But the figure was evidently too intent on peering within the ballroom to pay any attention to what might be occurring outside. ‘To see Charvill. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. More often then not he refused to reveal specifics of his own past in Greece and Rome, choosing to relate fables and stories of an impersonal nature. The man’s hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips.
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