“Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. He'll mend, I hope. “I feared we might have a fog. He panted for a moment with unuttered replies, and then, with a scornful gesture, got up and left the cell. For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. It appears that he was an unsuccessful admirer of the lady in question, and he admits that, under the influence of drink, he broke into her rooms, and there made a determined attempt at suicide. She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. She would take this one back with her. Until at last I persuaded him to go to bed.
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