And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. And, mind, it's for his sister, Lady Trafford. “Indeed,” she said, “I would not. All four people moved a little nervously into the drawing-room, maintaining a sort of fluttered amiability of sound and movement. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. "I'll tell you," replied Jack, with forced calmness. And as she was yet waiting for her tea to come she saw this man again.
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