He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. After a while he spoke again. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. But Jack eluded their grasp. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. “Annabel;” he moaned. “The first person you love, Ann Veronica, is yourself—get hold of that! The soul you have to save is Ann Veronica’s soul. But I expect him back every minute. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. While this was going on, Blueskin, seeing no notice whatever taken of him, coughed loudly and repeatedly. “I think,” he said, “that some one ought to warn her.
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