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I feel like a fraudulent trustee. Your servant, Mr. ’ ‘Because I like you, of course,’ Gerald said promptly. The great door of the Stone Hall was thrown open, and the sheriffs, preceded by the javelin-men, entered the room. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. She refused to eat. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. “Yes. The women’s meeting was much more charged with emotional force than the Socialists’. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. Besides, he was a Yale man.


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