My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. It was the first expression of the mother's blood. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. He brought into service all his Oriental bar-room tricks. ‘Ah, Madame Joan. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. Except he was the only idiot who would stay. These things are difficult.
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