There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. That was the inconvenience of it; her head was swimming. " "Yes, there was one," observed Ireton. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. But they found him on the veranda when they returned from McClintock's that evening. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened.
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