She was sorry to find Ramage a little disposed to be melancholy. “I say, Vee. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. I would have liked to know. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. E. '—'It's not to be thought of,' says I, thumping the table till every glass on it jingled; 'and I know a way as'll prevent it. I can see that you were somebody, in another day. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection.
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