‘I rather gathered as much,’ said Miss Froxfield, releasing her hands. “Never mind. ‘Would you like me to enquire for your mystery lady, Gerald? I know the Comte and Comtesse de St Erme quite well. . Every girl in the world practically, except a few of us who teach or type-write, and then we’re underpaid and sweated—it’s dreadful to think how we are sweated!” She had lost her generalization, whatever it was. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. ” Her heart leaped within her as she caught that phrase. .
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