Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. Wood's anxiety to please her distinguished guests speedily displayed itself in a very plentiful, if not very dainty repast. “I had a faint idea once that things were as you say they are, but the affair of the ring—of the unexpected ring—puzzled me. She was inclined to think that perhaps for a girl the converse of his method was the case; an older man, a man beyond the range of anything “nonsensical,” was, perhaps, the most interesting sort of friend one could meet. It would be downright cruel to disillusion her. I meant mischief.
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