"Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. They had heard nothing, seen nothing. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. Annabel laughed a little uneasily. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. “It’s jolly of you to come,” said Ramage. ’ ‘What, even less delightful than Gerald?’ enquired Lucilla, her eyes dancing. Only last night she saw me, and there was horror in her eyes. “My dear Annabel,” she said, “this is delightful, but I thought that it was forbidden. . Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you. ” There was silence between them. “Well, I don’t want you to talk to him,” he said, very firmly. Nothing at all.
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