Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. You may perceive harmony, proportion, rhythm, intensely. “Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. “They seem to come to you as naturally as disappointment—to other people. Hope reared. She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations.
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