With me behaving as if everything was infinitely matter-of-fact, what could he do? And just then Heaven sent old Manningtree—I didn’t tell you before of the fortunate intervention of Manningtree, did I? He was looking quite infernally distinguished, with a wide crimson ribbon across him—what IS a wide crimson ribbon? Some sort of knight, I suppose. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice.
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