” So they went this time to the Rococo, in Germain Street, and up-stairs to a landing upon which stood a bald-headed waiter with whiskers like a French admiral and discretion beyond all limits in his manner. ‘That’s better,’ said Gerald, and let her go. ” He beamed upon her. Only I just want him. The second is to somehow meet Lady Ferringhall. ” There was a moment’s silence. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps.
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