She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. The clock struck half-past ten. Heaven alone knows why. And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life. You make a game with me, imbecile. “It’s jolly of you to come,” said Ramage. CHAPTER VIII. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine.
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