“Annabel,” she said brusquely. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. Brendon’s guests,” she said, “and I scarcely think it would be nice of me to leave him alone with Sydney. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. So long as she could remember, her father had never permitted her to sit at the table unless she came fully dressed. I should have known at a glance if it was.
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