How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. It was a long walk she had to undertake, even if she had endured no previous fatigue, but feeble as she was, it was almost more than she could accomplish. Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. Do you know, Lady Ferringhall, I am proud that your sister permits me to call myself her friend. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher. "I don't know his name.
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