” “You are not a coward,” she repeated, “or you would not be my friend. He daren't quarrel with me: and if he does, let him look to himself. 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. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. Manning, “they’re a dream. It was just then that she came face to face with Nigel Ennison.
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