Disappointment flickered in Gerald’s chest, and he did not hesitate to speak his mind, unable to help a reproachful note. It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind. She had a vision of policemen, reproving magistrates, a crowded court, public disgrace. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. It was on the night of the Great Storm that I found him. ‘Her name is Melusine Charvill,’ Gerald began. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon.
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