Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. He refused. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. Too busy. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. All at once he recollected the fact that McClintock's copra plantation was down that way, somewhere in the South Seas; had an island of his own. Forgive me. ’ A trifle discomposed at being caught examining his surroundings, Gerald was provoked into retort. Anna was sitting before the fire a little distance from him—Ennison himself remained standing. Indeed, he told me nothing at all. The strong fingers of one hand secured both her wrists there, and Melusine found herself chest to chest with him as he threw off his hat, and began to pat at her petticoat, searching for tell-tale protrusions.
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