Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. Death belongs to God, young man. The intensity of the eyes and the defiant tone bewildered the doctor, who found his well-constructed jeremiad without a platform. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. Lucy auditioned on a borrowed violin. Small blame to her. And, whatever you may think, I assure you, Jack's a downright goodnatured fellow.
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