’ ‘But it’s my affair, Melusine. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. Mind you don't stir till supper's over. His eyes were fixed upon her face, but he opened his lips twice before he spoke. She gave her a wink when John had turned to ask Mark if Lucy could ride home with them. There stood John and Mr.
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