‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom. But with the skill of a fencer he met the blow and broke it, seizing the wrist. It’s just like your Splendid Pride to do it. Probably some woman on the loose; they were as thick as flies over here—dizzy blondes. And I’d do it again for you if needs be. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield.
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