Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. We struggle against it at first, but in the end we have to submit. ’ ‘Do not make a game with me,’ she interrupted, gripping her underlip firmly between her teeth to stop the threatening laughter. And this is not France, you understand. “Lady Mackinnor,” she said, “I am sure that you must have heard of Mr. Even now I do not understand. The risk I run is nothing to yours. The Rev. He well knows that but two lives—those of Thames Darrell and Sir Rowland Trenchard,—stand between you and the vast possessions of the family. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot. Brown or Jones, I dare say.
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