‘It is to say goodbye, you understand. After all, she only LOOKED a woman. Under the plumed hat, her eye kindled. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed. Her mother had prepared her for everything. ‘Very useful, of course. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. He was not, in truth, much of a ladies’ man.
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