Not so bad. Your aunt liked the pheasant. Good-looking girl. They talked lightly but confidentially until Sir John approached them with a slight frown upon his face. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously.
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