From McClintock's came an infernal tinkletinkle, tump-tump! There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. But Sheppard answered for him. ” “I am glad that you have a reasonable excuse for not having been to see me,” she said good-humouredly. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. ’ ‘No.
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