“I doubted my luck, at least. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. The chapel was crowded to excess. It can wait a bit longer. Quite soon, after we were married—it was just within a year—I formed a friendship with the wife of a friend, a woman eight years older than myself. As he understood it, folks saw in two or three days all there was to see of Canton. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. ‘Up, Jacques, up,’ she ordered. ” She shrugged her shoulders and led him towards a small recess. “Please stop, cabman,” she ordered. “No I’m not, John. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are. " She rose.
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