“It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. The door to the library burst open. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. You know I am in love with you. “It was not necessary,” Sir John answered stiffly. What the devil is the matter, Dunster?” “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you. Wood, in equal trepidation. The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. And, mind! no prevaricating—nothing but the truth will satisfy me. “Lift up one corner of the curtain for me.
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