The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. Chapter XXI HER SISTER’S SECRET “I think,” Lady Ferringhall said, “that you are talking very foolishly. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find. He was manifestly exerting his mind for her, and she found herself fully disposed to justify his interest. .
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