” Her hands fell to her side. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. . She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. I heard rumours of it in Paris, and the place since then has been closed. . Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. So she built a shrine. It’s that father of yours you take after, no question. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. Jack had well-nigh fallen too.
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