Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. ‘Would you have me face my maker with that on my conscience? If I’d died, there’d have been no one to tell you, for your father would not have done. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. “Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you,” she begged. Perhaps I deceived you about it.
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