She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. One called her very distinctly “My dear!” Two secretarial posts did indeed seem to offer themselves in which, at least, there was no specific exclusion of womanhood; one was under a Radical Member of Parliament, and the other under a Harley Street doctor, and both men declined her proffered services with the utmost civility and admiration and terror. . . Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. It is the vapouring school girl. The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. “Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?” “I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. ’ The lashes fluttered demurely.
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