She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. Why?" "I was just wondering. It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. You come to England, and hide in a secret convent in London. Here was one that subtly mocked her. Why, he can scarcely be twenty.
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