Do you know, Annabel, that you are my wife. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it. Ten years of military life had taught him caution, but only strengthened a fearless zest for diving into any promising adventure with unalloyed enjoyment. “By-the-bye, Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “do you know that I am a very great admirer of your sister’s? I wonder if she has ever spoken to you of me. At this gate two paths meet. ‘But I find you excessively rude, Gérard. The hangman is always an object of peculiar detestation to the mob, a tremendous hooting hailed his appearance, and both staves and swords were required to preserve order. What would it be without that safeguard?” Ogilvy pursued his own topic. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense.
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