‘Would you like me to enquire for your mystery lady, Gerald? I know the Comte and Comtesse de St Erme quite well. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. I’ll protect you!” He cried. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. Sheppard wildly.
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