Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand. And all the talk of the Miniver people and the Widgett people seemed always to be like a ship in adverse weather on the lee shore of love. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. “God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. .
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