CHAPTER II.
The book Miss Farrow held in her hand was an amusing book, the latest volume of some rather lively French memoirs, but she put it down after a very few moments, and, leaning forward, held out her hands to the fire.
They were not pretty hands: though small and well-shaped, there was something just a little claw-like about them; but they were very white, and her almond-shaped nails, admirably manicured, gleamed in the soft red light.
Yes, in spite of this stupid little _contretemps_ about Pegler, she was glad indeed that circumstances over which she had had rather more control than she liked to think had made it impossible for her to go out to Monte Carlo this winter.

She had been sharply vexed, beside herself with annoyance, almost tempted to do what she had never yet done--that is, to ask Lionel Varick, now so delightfully prosperous, to lend her a couple of hundred pounds.

But she had resisted the impulse, and she was now glad of it.
After all, there's no place like dear old England at Christmas time.

How much nicer, too, is a bachelor host than a hostess! A bachelor host?
No, not exactly a bachelor host, for Lionel Varick was a widower.

Twice a widower, if the truth were known.