Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. Ann Veronica, after a last survey of the dinner appointments, followed him, rustling, came to his side by the high brass fender, and touched two or three ornaments on the mantel above the cheerful fireplace. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. Neither Charvill nor his heir know anything of your presence in England. “But your sister?” he asked. But they were old enough to start remembering you as mother, and we cannot have that.
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