” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. “But it makes me feel inhuman,” he added. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed. 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.
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