He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. “Annabel?” he exclaimed. That old world that had shoved up that silly old hotel, and all the rest of it. “Come this way,” he said. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. “Think of what people will say!” That became a refrain. “Has she ever thought of buying a pair of foam earplugs?” Lucy asked.
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