Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind. He did not so much cut into this conversation as loom over it, for he was a tall, if rather studiously stooping, man. But Jonathan was not to be deterred. “And what on earth,” he said, “do you think the world is made of? Why do you think I have been doing things for you? The abstract pleasure of goodness? Are you one of the members of that great white sisterhood that takes and does not give? The good accepting woman! Do you really suppose a girl is entitled to live at free quarters on any man she meets without giving any return?” “I thought,” said Ann Veronica, “you were my friend. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack.
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