‘Come along. Gerald’s breath caught. ’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. ’ ‘As far as I know it, ma’am. Would she ever find it? Sighing, she opened the door to the next room, and drew back the drapes. And stony broke. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. His reputation was slightly tainted by his marriage to her mother, an exotic blue-eyed raven-haired beauty, a Gypsy doll with a clandestine heritage.
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