He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. She floundered deep. ‘But on the off chance—slim, I grant you —that there is a spy down there, I don’t want to miss the fun. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. She rose to the fire to stoke it. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. "Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I can bring myself to part with him, you shall have him without another word.
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