She had told him, point blank, that since the Church had neither annulled the first marriage nor sanctified the second one, she was not his wife. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. Annabel had been here then.
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