“Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said. Lucy auditioned on a borrowed violin. “Sir John of course disapproves of me,” she remarked slowly. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. “We pretend bodies are ugly. He could not see these two shrinking misses capering about in a nun’s habit and brandishing a defiant pistol. Only her ungloved fingers, and the arms in their long tight sleeves as she held the heavy gun aloft, bore any sign of stiffness. I suspect he has a bit of vanity.
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