Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in. “The Widgetts,” she said. Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. I didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—you might have any need of me. Their colloquy was ended abruptly by the apparition of Miss Klegg at the further door. "Oh!" she gasped. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. ’ ‘From a convent? Even if I wished to do it, I could not.
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