“NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. On weighing the matter over, he grew so uneasy that he resolved to descend, and inform him of his misgivings. ‘Do you know, Mademoiselle Charvill, you are a thought too clever for your own good. Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested.
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