Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. ‘You know about that?’ ‘It was the only possible deduction. He noted the strong white teeth as they snipped the thread. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “But, dear, think! He is your father. . “I was never at any such dinner, and I am quite sure that I do not know you. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. The musician.
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