“A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. Even the light was different in Athens, soft and golden, sweet as the morning dew blessed by Athena herself. Yes, I think we have thoroughly thrashed that one out. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. Not fit to be dust on your boots.
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