He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. She had never seen so much food in her life as she saw at her own wedding feast. Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. Look somewhere else in life. Cautiously stepping outside, he looked up towards the terrace. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool.
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