" "So it is, child. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. I don’t think we’re altogether to blame if we don’t take some of your lot seriously. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Was it a week ago? No, perhaps more. "Nothing you can say to the contrary will convince me that you have not been accessory to his flight. “Great!” Cathy squealed.
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