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“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. “I feel fat! I already gained five pounds last week because I was stuck in bed with my ear infection. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought.
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