” Mr. ‘You wish a reason for jealousy? Eh bien, you may have it. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. They were really very fine and abundant, with a blaze of perennial sunflowers behind them. “I was in Paris four years ago,” Mr. “I do not lay claim,” he continued, “to any remarkable amount of insight, but it is possible, is it not, that I have stumbled upon your present cause of distress. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar.
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