“Who can tell?” she said. He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. He walked hastily to the side of the broad pavement and summoned a fiacre. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. Plays Beethoven, Rubenstein and all those chaps. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. If it is that I am in the least French, and that you do not like it—’ ‘I don’t like it,’ snapped the old man.
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