‘You make me talk, you make me talk. “Politics!” Ennison answered grimly. “What ought you to do?” He began to produce his knowledge of the world for her benefit, jerkily and allusively, and with a strong, rank flavor of “savoir faire. She had never before heard the noise of firecrackers, and in the beginning the sputtering racket caused her to wince. She gloried in it: he needed her. His natal burr was always in evidence when he was sentimentally affected. The curtains which she had left drawn were open, and the electric lights were turned on. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. “They seem to come to you as naturally as disappointment—to other people. There is light enough from the sun,’ she said, relieved. ” “Lady Ferringhall—alone?” Ennison exclaimed. “Please call me Carol.
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