He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared. . Proof that the scoundrel had risen from the dead—for he was dead to his father! He glared at the female whose appearance in England had revived those painful memories—churning unbearably since Brewis Charvill had brought him the news and put him in the worst of tempers—and the fury spilled out. To simplify matters, he carried a coloured paper lantern upon which his license number was painted in Arabic numerals. “Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. “An annuity—a sum of money paid to you yearly or quarterly through my solicitors, and which you can consider as a gift from your sister. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime.
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