I’ll wait my whole life!” He cried. “I’ll ruin your suit. His car was there. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side.
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