I met you here as Lady Ferringhall. Gerald lifted an eyebrow. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. “Then we must try and make London endurable for you,” he remarked cheerfully. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. “We will do Paris like the tourists, and thank God here comes dinner. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically. He seemed wholly insensible to the rain, though it presently descended in torrents, and continued his search as ardently as before. Wood grasped his companion's arm to attract his attention to this unexpected means of escape. And your great-niece. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him.
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