She was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. It was hard to gain weight when you hated to eat. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. 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.
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