It was Ennison, who loomed up through the shadows. Indeed, I've heard him say that, but for his wife, he would shelter her under his own roof. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. It presented itself in the likeness of a great, gray, dull world—a brutal, superstitious, confused, and wrong-headed world, that hurt people and limited people unaccountably. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. It would have given me intense satisfaction to have been able to catch a French spy. “It is unimportant,” she said.
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