Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Capital swordsman. It wasn’t. She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. Brendon. I am not boring you, am I?” She raised her eyes to his and smiled into his face. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. Sheppard's weight had destroyed the equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended.
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