She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. On one side of the handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the queen. “I don’t see there’s any getting away from the fact that you and I love each other,” he said, slowly. ‘Seems to me like you know just about as much as me. For fully five minutes he lay quite motionless. You have made your public, you are already a personage. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. That dress! Only a man—and an unworldly one—would have permitted you to proceed on your adventure dressed in a gown thirty years out of date.
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