Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. She had not nursed Leonardo for weeks for nothing. Poor young lady! She trembled too, and was unable to give her evidence. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless.
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