She opened the door to him herself. She wondered wildly why she had stood up. Jack was a comical scoundrel, and made a little too free with his grace's best burgundy, as well as his grace's favourite housekeeper. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. In his way he was critical. “I will go,” he said. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing.
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