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He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. After all, she was a consummate actress. She glanced at the soft-ticking clock with the exposed brass pendulum upon the white marble mantel, and made a rapid calculation. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Ennison spoke at last.
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