” She laughed heartily, and became as suddenly grave. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. “I know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life. She became aware that at regular intervals a light flashed upon her face and a bodiless eye regarded her, and this, as the night wore on, became a torment. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. What isn’t a day-dream is this: that you and I are going to put an end to flummery—and go!” “Go!” said Ann Veronica, clenching her hands.
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