During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. The general propositions of Socialism, for example, struck her as admirable, but she certainly did not extend her admiration to any of its exponents. “It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. The kindly American consul-general had himself taken her to the bank, where her banknotes had been exchanged for a letter of credit, and had thoroughly advised her. She did not forge a note.
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