‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. I hope you won’t think less of me, you’ve treated me so well. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. ” The change in Lady Ferringhall’s manner was subtle but unmistakable. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. ‘Have I not said so?’ ‘No, as it happens.
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