“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. From the portals of the hotel—scarcely fifty yards from the canal—one saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. She looked at him gravely and squinted. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. “I must repeat,” Sir John said, “that I much regret disturbing you at such an unseemly hour. Since the discovery of them, she had been madly eager to read these typewritten tales. I couldn't accept anything from you. ‘It is not for myself, you understand,’ pursued the man, in an unctuous tone that sickened the general, ‘but for this poor one. “Hainault, Celeste’s friend.
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