He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. Yet, stay! There is one thing I wish you to do. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. ” “It was Cheveney!” he said slowly. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole.
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