Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. His literary instincts began to stir. The Iron Bar. “I know nothing about your wife. ” They were eating quails when they returned to the topic of love. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. She decided not to ask him outright if he wished to make love to her. “I drink your very good health, Sir John and Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “and I wish you a pleasant journey back to England.
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