His eyes absently roved the room, finally coming to rest on the tall figure of the Earl. Dalmar, formally resplendent in white satin breeches and dark evening coat, was replenishing two glasses from an opened bottle of hock which stood on a satinwood console table."What was all the hammering about?" asked Ransome, edging himself more comfortably into the commodious armchair which was drawn close to the grate for warmth.Dalmar looked up. "Hammering? Oh, you mean this afternoon? That was Annabelle's doing. At supper tonight she's going to present me, publicly, mind you, with my engagement present. It's all a big secret. Well, you know women.""It didn't sound like much of a secret.""It isn't really," allowed Dalmar. "She's had upholsterers hang curtains against one of the walls. It doesn't take much imagination to guess what's concealed behind them.""Her portrait," drawled Ransome ironically.Dalmar's lips flashed a quick, enigmatic smile. "I don't doubt it," he murmured."Women are so unimaginative.
