“You—appear to know my name, sir,” Sir John said. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. “Quite different. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly.
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