Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. She felt terrible lying to him. " "Of course," rejoined Kneebone, a little maliciously, "but that's easily accounted for. "See her I will. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. He looked at her with a certain curiosity. "Won't you take these?" For a space he merely stared at her, perhaps wondering if she were real.
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