“I fail to see the joke,” Sir John said. Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. I had a perfect shoal of callers. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. “What are you doing?” He cried. “We have no airs and graces here, and my hat hangs from a peg in the passage. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. “What the hell is going on here, Officer?” He grumbled.
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