"Come, come, I dare swear she has a secret drawer fragrant with cedar. Find it, my dear Miss Phyllida, and you'll find many old letters, many withered nosegays."
"Indeed, I've searched."
"Perhaps her escritoire is the heart."
"'Tis very well for you, Sir, to talk thus, but my parents were never happy."
The Beau mentally cursed the pertinacious memories of servants.
"Then, if that was the case," he went on, "there is the greater reason for your friends to secure you against such an irreparable misadventure. Now come, you'll present me to this Mr. Amor? I may not understand all women, but trust me, I have a tolerable knowledge of men."
The pale February sun cast a watery beam through the high windows and Mr. Ripple's face caught an added lustre, was in fact so bright and kindly that Phyllida promised, subject to Mr. Amor's consent.
And soon they were both bending over the portfolio of prints—very diverting prints they were too, caricatures of the foibles of fashion.
It was certainly very delightful to see tranquil monarch and fervent maid laughing very heartily together at the most prodigious head-dress the world ever saw.