Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. His head bent down, intent on kissing her underneath the showerhead. The girl suppressed a chuckle that would have been inexplicable. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while Thames unwired and uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale. Opening the door he then stepped into a dark narrow passage leading, as he was well aware, to the chapel. Chapter XXI HER SISTER’S SECRET “I think,” Lady Ferringhall said, “that you are talking very foolishly. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you.
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