Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. " "Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said the Wastrel, in broken English. The Chapel 401 XX. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. He had been for months without music of the character he loved—and he dared not play any of it! McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in a corner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp. "Well, if you won't come, I shall help myself, and that's unsociable," pursued the speaker, evidently, from the noise he made, suiting the action to the word.
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