The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. "You've won your wager. ” “Yes,” said Mr. Suddenly he understood what had happened. "I'll call you when you're wanted. “Really, Vee, you seem to have advertised our relations pretty generally!” “They—they knew, of course.
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