“A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. Presently she became aware of footsteps hurrying after her, and glanced back to find Miss Klegg, a little out of breath, in pursuit. You. “Are you going on again this winter with that scientific work of yours? It’s an instance of heredity, I suppose. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back. Before I sit down, I have a toast to propose, which I am sure will be received, as it deserves to be, with enthusiasm. He was manifestly exerting his mind for her, and she found herself fully disposed to justify his interest.
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