tentatively engraved that resolve. But he should have chosen a more stable
testament than this avowal made to a whimsically-minded playwright with an
absurd weakness for the beauties of a midnight wood.

And if I had been a witness to his oath, I was, now, a witness to his
foreswearing.

He began well enough on the note proper to the heir of Jervaise. He had
the aplomb to carry that off. He stood on the hearthrug, austere and
self-controlled, consciously aristocrat, heir and barrister.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Banks. Almost inexcusable to disturb you at this time
of night." He stopped after that beginning and searched his witness with a
stare that ought to have set her trembling.

Anne had sat down and was resting her forearms on the table. She looked up
at him with the most charming insouciance when he paused so portentously
at the very opening of his address. Her encouraging "yes" was rather in
the manner of a child waiting for the promised story.

Jervaise frowned and attempted the dramatic. "My sister, Brenda, has run
away," he said.

"When?"

"This evening at the end of the Cinderella. You knew we were giving a
dance?"

"But where to?"