266 She peered up at him. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. She shook her head. ’ Then she jammed her hat on her head all anyhow and ran from the room. " "Not quite, I hope," rejoined Sheppard.
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