How I wish I might meet this delightful mystery lady of yours. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Even on cool days the gardens were colorful and bright, with orange trees emanating sweetness and bumblebees drunkenly weaving from flower to flower. And such slight relief as I can afford should have been offered earlier, if I'd known where you'd taken refuge after your unfortunate husband's—" "Execution, you would say, Sir," added Mrs. At this moment she was staring ahead; and again came the opportunity to study her. "I've done all I can to the portrait here. Ann Veronica intervened a little in the novelist discussion with a defence of Esmond and a denial that the Egoist was obscure, and when she spoke every one else stopped talking and listened.
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