155 The ringing doorbell jarred her from her stupor. Then a roar of hisses. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. Wood resounded from below. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. He stood on the top step for a moment, lost in deep thought. A man is so apt to—to take women a little too lightly. "What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?" "Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass. .
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