Paris copies London. —Providence, I mean—HAS arranged it so that men will keep you, more or less. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Gerald sighed. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. But the great point was still unaccomplished. Loneliness. It is so ridiculous. For that matter, my future be damned. ‘What do you mean?’ Gerald grinned. Sheppard broke from him, and filled the room with her shrieks. Unless he deserts the girl, he won't be so hard to find as formerly.
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