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Updated: June 14, 2025
"You can look as innocent and shocked as you please. I want to know who sent you those." She pointed with shaking fingers to a great bunch of dark red carnations, thrust carelessly into a deep china bowl, to which the card was still attached. Anna followed her finger, and looked back into her sister's face. "They were sent to me by Mr. Nigel Ennison, Annabel. How on earth does it concern you?"
She stepped on to the pavement almost before him, and his blood turned almost to ice as he saw that she was not alone. A young man turned to pay the cabman. Then she saw him. "Mr. Ennison," she exclaimed, "is that really you?" There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. She held out her hand frankly. She seemed honestly glad to see him.
Nigel Ennison was he." Anna stood up. Her cheeks were aflame. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion. "Go on!" she commanded. "Let me know the truth." Annabel looked down. It was hard to meet that gaze. "Does he never speak to you of of old times?" she faltered. "Don't fence with me," Anna cried fiercely. "The truth!" Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister's ear.
"I heard they came from somewhere outrageous." "Hampstead didn't suit Lady Ferringhall," Ennison remarked. "They have just taken this house from Lady Cellender." "And what are you doing here?" the lady asked. "Politics!" Ennison answered grimly. "And you?" "Same thing. Besides, my husband has shares in Sir John's company.
Ennison too, always handsome and debonnair, seemed transported out of his calm self. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. He said daring things with a grace which made them irresistible, his eyes flashed back upon her some eloquent but silent appreciation of the change in her manner towards him. And then there came for both of them at least a temporary awakening.
The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. If she's over, he probably knows all about it." Ennison looked steadily at the cigarette which he was tapping on his forefinger. "So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?" he remarked.
Meddoes turned round from the table on which he was practising shots and shrugged his shoulders. "Not much," he answered, "and yet about all there is to be known, I fancy. There were two sisters, you know. Old Jersey and Hampshire family, the Pellissiers, and a capital stock, too, I believe." "Any one could see that the girls were ladies," Ennison murmured.
Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. He stood by her side, and he suffered her hands to rest in his. "You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about Meysey Hill they called him?" He nodded. "Miserable bounder," he murmured. "Turned out to be an impostor, too." "He imposed on me," Annabel continued. "I believed that he was the great multi-millionaire.
"And I," Ennison said, holding her fingers tightly, and forcing her to look into his eyes, "I will tell you what I have wished for you when we meet six months from to-day." Up the moss-grown path, where the rose bushes run wild, almost met, came Anna in a spotless white gown, with the flush of her early morning walk in her cheeks, and something of the brightness of it in her eyes.
Call her Miss Pellissier, eh? I tell you she's my wife, and I've got the certificate in my pocket." "I don't know who you are," Ennison said quietly, "but you are a thundering liar." Hill staggered to his feet and drew a folded paper from his pocket. "Marriage certificates don't tell lies, at any rate," he said. "Just look that through, will you."
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