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. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question. He slackened his pace as he reached the flat. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. It was after all a momentary affair. Wood gave the required promise, though he could not help thinking that if either of them had cause to be jealous he was the party. "The plot's out!" cried Jack.
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