“You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. Who? Could it be Gerald? Quickly, she looked back at Gosse’s face, and found him frowning. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. I said intensity of perception. I cannot have my wife distressed or worried. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day.
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