A smile trembled at the corners of her mouth as she recalled Gerald’s ridiculous upbraiding of his own reflection in the mirror. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. “Close your eyes. You, sir,” he added, turning to Brendon, “had better take my card round to the police station in Werner Street and ask that Detective Dorling be sent round here at once on urgent business. But we have got to talk upon indifferent themes until we have done with this blond young gentleman from Bavaria. He probably imagines himself to be a thousand times worse off than he actually is. Who was he?” “Intriguing.
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