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A Woman Intervenes by Robert Barr

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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and PG Distributed
Proofreaders. This file was produced from images generously made
available by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions.




A WOMAN INTERVENES

BY

ROBERT BARR




AUTHOR OF

'IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS,' 'IN A STEAMER CHAIR,' 'FROM WHOSE BOURNE,'
ETC.

WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY HAL HURST

1896

TO

MY FRIEND

HORACE HART




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

'I HAD NO INTENTION OF INSULTING YOU' _Frontispiece_

WENTWORTH SHOWED HER HOW TO TURN IT ROUND

MISS JENNIE ALLOWED HIM TO ADJUST THE WRAPS AROUND HER

'OH, YES! YOU WILL STAY,' CRIED THE OTHER

SHE WALKED ALONE UP AND DOWN THE PROMENADE

SHE SPRANG SUDDENLY TO HER FEET

'YOU HAVE A PRODIGIOUS HEAD FOR BUSINESS'

EDITH LONGWORTH HAD SAT DOWN BESIDE HIM




CHAPTER I.


The managing editor of the _New York Argus_ sat at his desk with a deep
frown on his face, looking out from under his shaggy eyebrows at the
young man who had just thrown a huge fur overcoat on the back of one
chair, while he sat down himself on another.

'I got your telegram,' began the editor. 'Am I to understand from it that
you have failed?'

'Yes, sir,' answered the young man, without the slightest hesitation.

'Completely?'

'Utterly.'

'Didn't you even get a synopsis of the documents?'

'Not a hanged synop.'

The editor's frown grew deeper. The ends of his fingers drummed nervously
on the desk.

'You take failure rather jauntily, it strikes me,' he said at last.

'What's the use of taking it any other way? I have the consciousness of
knowing that I did my best.'

'Um, yes. It's a great consolation, no doubt, but it doesn't count in
the newspaper business. What did you do?'

'I received your telegram at Montreal, and at once left for Burnt
Pine--most outlandish spot on earth. I found that Kenyon and
Wentworth were staying at the only hotel in the place. Tried to worm
out of them what their reports were to be. They were very polite, but
I didn't succeed. Then I tried to bribe them, and they ordered me out
of the room.'

'Perhaps you didn't offer them enough.'

'I offered double what the London Syndicate was to pay them for making
the report, taking their own word for the amount. I couldn't offer more,
because at that point they closed the discussion by ordering me out of
the room. I tried to get the papers that night, on the quiet, out of
Wentworth's valise, but was unfortunately interrupted. The young men
were suspicious, and next morning they left for Ottawa to post the
reports, as I gathered afterwards, to England. I succeeded in getting
hold of the reports, but I couldn't hang on. There are too many police
in Ottawa to suit me.'

'Do you mean to tell me,' said the editor, 'that you actually had the
reports in your hands, and that they were taken from you?'

'Certainly I had; and as to their being taken from me, it was either that
or gaol. They don't mince matters in Canada as they do in the United
States, you know.'

'But I should think a man of your shrewdness would have been able to get
at least a synopsis of the reports before letting them out of his
possession.'

'My dear sir,' said the reporter, rather angry, 'the whole thing covered
I forget how many pages of foolscap paper, and was the most mixed-up
matter I ever saw in my life. I tried--I sat in my room at the hotel, and
did my best to master the details. It was full of technicalities, and I
couldn't make it out. It required a mining expert to get the hang of
their phrases and figures, so I thought the best thing to do was to
telegraph it all straight through to New York. I knew it would cost a lot
of money, but I knew, also, you didn't mind that; and I thought, perhaps,
somebody here could make sense out of what baffled me; besides, I wanted
to get the documents out of my possession just as quickly as possible.'

'Hem!' said the editor. 'You took no notes whatever?'

'No, I did not. I had no time. I knew the moment they missed the
documents they would have the detectives on my track. As it was, I was
arrested when I entered the telegraph-office.'

'Well, it seems to me,' said the managing editor, 'if I had once had the
papers in my hand, I should not have let them go until I had got the gist
of what was in them.'

'Oh, it's all very well for you to say so,' replied the reporter, with
the free and easy manner in which an American newspaper man talks to his
employer; 'but I can tell you, with a Canadian gaol facing a man, it is
hard to decide what is best to do. I couldn't get out of the town for
three hours, and before the end of that time they would have had my
description in the hands of every policeman in the place. They knew well
enough who took the papers, so my only hope lay in getting the thing
telegraphed through; and if that had been accomplished, everything would
have been all right. I would have gone to gaol with pleasure if I had
got the particulars through to New York.'

'Well, what are we to do now?' asked the editor.

'I'm sure I don't know. The two men will be in New York very shortly.
They sail, I understand, on the _Caloric_, which leaves in a week. If you
think you have a reporter who can get the particulars out of these men, I
should be very pleased to see you set him on. I tell you it isn't so easy
to discover what an Englishman doesn't want you to know.'

'Well,' said the editor, 'perhaps that's true. I will think about it. Of
course you did your best, and I appreciate your efforts; but I am sorry
you failed.'

'You are not half so sorry as I am,' said Rivers, as he picked up his big
Canadian fur coat and took his leave.

The editor did think about it. He thought for fully two minutes. Then he
dashed off a note on a sheet of paper, pulled down the little knob that
rang the District Messenger alarm, and when the uniformed boy appeared,
gave him the note, saying:

'Deliver this as quickly as you can.'

The boy disappeared, and the result of his trip was soon apparent in the
arrival of a very natty young woman in the editorial rooms. She was
dressed in a neatly-fitting tailor-made costume, and was a very pretty
girl, who looked about nineteen, but was, in reality, somewhat older. She
had large, appealing blue eyes, with a tender, trustful expression in
them, which made the ordinary man say: 'What a sweet, innocent look that
girl has!' yet, what the young woman didn't know about New York was not
worth knowing. She boasted that she could get State secrets from
dignified members of the Cabinet, and an ordinary Senator or Congressman
she looked upon as her lawful prey. That which had been told her in the
strictest confidence had often become the sensation of the next day in
the paper she represented. She wrote over a _nom de guerre_, and had
tried her hand at nearly everything. She had answered advertisements,
exposed rogues and swindlers, and had gone to a hotel as chambermaid, in
order to write her experiences. She had been arrested and locked up, so
that she might write a three-column account, for the Sunday edition of
the _Argus_, of 'How Women are Treated at Police Headquarters.' The
editor looked upon her as one of the most valuable members of his staff,
and she was paid accordingly.

She came into the room with the self-possessed air of the owner of the
building, took a seat, after nodding to the editor, and said, 'Well?'

'Look here, Jennie,' began that austere individual, 'do you wish to take
a trip to Europe?'

'That depends,' said Jennie; 'this is not just the time of year that
people go to Europe for pleasure, you know.'

'Well, this is not exactly a pleasure trip. The truth of the matter is,
Rivers has been on a job and has bungled it fearfully, besides nearly
getting himself arrested.'

The young woman's eyes twinkled. She liked anything with a spice of
danger in it, and did not object to hear that she was expected to succeed
where a mere masculine reporter had failed.

The editor continued:

'Two young men are going across to England on the _Caloric_. It sails in
a week. I want you to take a ticket for Liverpool by that boat, and
obtain from either of those two men the particulars--the _full_
particulars--of reports they have made on some mining properties in
Canada. Then you must land at Queenstown and cable a complete account to
the _Argus_.'

'Mining isn't much in my line,' said Miss Jennie, with a frown on her
pretty brow. 'What sort of mines were they dealing with--gold, silver,
copper, or what?'

'They are certain mines on the Ottawa River.'

'That's rather indefinite.'

'I know it is. I can't give you much information about the matter. I
don't know myself, to tell the truth, but I know it is vitally important
that we should get a synopsis of what the reports of these young men are
to be. A company, called the London Syndicate, has been formed in
England. This syndicate is to acquire a large number of mines in Canada,
if the accounts given by the present owners are anything like correct.
Two men, Kenyon and Wentworth--the first a mining engineer, and the
second an experienced accountant--have been sent from London to Canada,
one to examine the mines, the other to examine the books of the various
corporations. Whether the mines are bought or not will depend a good deal
on the reports these two men have in their possession. The reports, when
published, will make a big difference, one way or the other, on the Stock
Exchange. I want to have the gist of them before the London Syndicate
sees them. It will be a big thing for the _Argus_ if it is the first in
the field, and I am willing to spend a pile of hard cash to succeed. So,
don't economize on your cable expenses.'

'Very well; have you a book on Canadian mines?'

'I don't know that we have; but there is a book here, "The Mining
Resources of Canada;" will that be of any use?'

'I shall need something of that sort. I want to be a little familiar with
the subject, you know.'

'Quite so,' said the editor; 'I will see what can be got in that line.
You can read it before you start, and on the way over.'

'All right,' said Miss Jennie; 'and am I to take my pick of the two
young men?'

'Certainly,' answered the editor. 'You will see them both, and can easily
make up your mind which will the sooner fall a victim.'

'The _Caloric_ sails in a week, does it?'

'Yes.'

'Then I shall need at least five hundred dollars to get new dresses
with.'

'Good gracious!' cried the editor.

'There is no "good gracious" about it. I'm going to travel as a
millionaire's daughter, and it isn't likely that one or two dresses will
do me all the way over.'

'But you can't get new dresses made in a week,' said the editor.

'Can't I? Well, you just get me the five hundred dollars, and I'll see
about the making.'

The editor jotted the amount down.

'You don't think four hundred dollars would do?' he said.

'No, I don't. And, say, am I to get a trip to Paris after this is over,
or must I come directly back?'

'Oh, I guess we can throw in the trip to Paris,' said the editor.

'What did you say the names of the young men are?--or are they not
young? Probably they are old fogies, if they are in the mining business.'

'No; they are young, they are shrewd, and they are English. So you see
your work is cut out for you. Their names are George Wentworth and
John Kenyon.'

'Oh, Wentworth is my man,' said the young woman breezily. 'John Kenyon! I
know just what sort of a person he is--sombre and taciturn. Sounds too
much like John Bunyan, or John Milton, or names of that sort.'

'Well, I wouldn't be too sure about it until you see them. Better not
make up your mind about the matter.'

'When shall I call for the five hundred dollars?'

'Oh, that you needn't trouble about. The better way is to get your
dresses made, and tell the people to send the bills to our office.'

'Very well,' said the young woman. 'I shall be ready. Don't be frightened
at the bills when they come in. If they come up to a thousand dollars,
remember I told you I would let you off for five hundred dollars.'

The editor looked at her for a moment, and seemed to reflect that
perhaps it was better not to give a young lady unlimited credit in New
York. So he said:

'Wait a bit; I'll write you out the order, and you can take it
downstairs.'

Miss Jennie took the paper when it was offered to her, and disappeared.
When she presented the order in the business office, the cashier raised
his eyebrows as he noticed the amount, and, with a low whistle, said to
himself:

'Five hundred dollars! I wonder what game Jennie Brewster's up to now.'




CHAPTER II.


The last bell had rung. Those who were going ashore had taken their
departure. Crowds of human beings clustered on the pier-head, and at the
large doorways of the warehouse which stood open on the steamer wharf. As
the big ship slowly backed out there was a fluttering of handkerchiefs
from the mass on the pier, and an answering flutter from those who
crowded along the bulwarks of the steamer. The tug slowly pulled the prow
of the vessel round, and at last the engines of the steamship began their
pulsating throbs--throbs that would vibrate night and day until the
steamer reached an older civilization. The crowd on the pier became more
and more indistinct to those on board, and many of the passengers went
below, for the air was bitterly cold, and the boat was forcing its way
down the bay among huge blocks of ice.

Two, at least, of the passengers had taken little interest in the
departure. They were leaving no friends behind them, and were both
setting their faces toward friends at home.

'Let us go down,' said Wentworth to Kenyon, 'and see that we get seats
together at table before all are taken.'

'Very good,' replied his companion, and they descended to the roomy
saloon, where two long tables were already laid with an ostentatious
display of silver, glassware, and cutlery, which made many, who looked on
this wilderness of white linen with something like dismay, hope that the
voyage would be smooth, although, as it was a winter passage, there was
every chance it would not be. The purser and two of his assistants sat
at one of the shorter tables with a plan before them, marking off the
names of passengers who wished to be together, or who wanted some
particular place at any of the tables. The smaller side-tables were still
uncovered because the number of passengers at that season of the year was
comparatively few. As the places were assigned, one of the helpers to the
purser wrote the names of the passengers on small cards, and the other
put the cards on the tables.

One young woman, in a beautifully-fitting travelling gown, which was
evidently of the newest cut and design, stood a little apart from the
general group which surrounded the purser and his assistants. She eagerly
scanned every face, and listened attentively to the names given.
Sometimes a shade of disappointment crossed her brow, as if she expected
some particular person to possess some particular name which that
particular person did not bear. At last her eyes sparkled.

'My name is Wentworth,' said the young man whose turn it was.

'Ah! any favourite place, Mr. Wentworth?' asked the purser blandly, as if
he had known Wentworth all his life.

'No, we don't care where we sit; but my friend Mr. Kenyon and myself
would like places together.'

'Very good; you had better come to my table,' replied the purser.
'Numbers 23 and 24--Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Wentworth.'

The steward took the cards that were given him, and placed them to
correspond with the numbers the purser had named. Then the young woman
moved gracefully along, as if she were interested in the names upon the
table. She looked at Wentworth's name for a moment, and saw in the place
next to his the name of Mr. Brown. She gave a quick, apprehensive glance
around the saloon, and observed the two young men who had arranged for
their seats at table now walking leisurely toward the companion-way. She
took the card with the name of Mr. Brown upon it, and slipped upon the
table another on which were written the words 'Miss Jennie Brewster.' Mr.
Brown's card she placed on the spot from which she had taken her own.

'I hope Mr. Brown is not particular which place he occupies,' said Jennie
to herself; 'but at any rate I shall see that I am early for dinner, and
I'm sure Mr. Brown, whoever he is, will not be so ungallant as to insist
on having this place if he knows his card was here.'

Subsequent events proved her surmise regarding Mr. Brown's indifference
to be perfectly well founded. That young man searched for his card, found
it, and sat down on the chair opposite the young woman, who already
occupied her chair, and was, in fact, the first one at table. Seeing
there would be no unseemly dispute about places, she began to plan in her
own mind how she would first attract the attention of Mr. Wentworth.
While thinking how best to approach her victim, Jennie heard his voice.

'Here you are, Kenyon; here are our places.'

'Which is mine?' said the voice of Kenyon.

'It doesn't matter,' answered Wentworth, and then a thrill of fear went
through the gentle heart of Miss Jennie Brewster. She had not thought of
the young man not caring which seat he occupied, and she dreaded the
possibility of finding herself next to Kenyon rather than Wentworth. Her
first estimate of the characters of the two men seemed to be correct. She
always thought of Kenyon as Bunyan, and she felt certain that Wentworth
would be the easier man of the two to influence. The next moment her
fears were allayed, for Kenyon, giving a rapid glance at the handsome
young woman, deliberately chose the seat farthest from her, and
Wentworth, with 'I beg your pardon,' slipped in and sat down on the chair
beside her.

'Now,' thought Jennie, with a sigh of relief, 'our positions are fixed
for the meals of the voyage.' She had made her plans for beginning an
acquaintance with the young man, but they were rendered unnecessary by
the polite Mr. Wentworth handing her the bill of fare.

'Oh, thank you,' said the girl, in a low voice, which was so musical that
Wentworth glanced at her a second time and saw how sweet and pretty and
innocent she was.

'I'm in luck,' said the unfortunate young man to himself. Then he
remarked aloud: 'We have not many ladies with us this voyage.'

'No,' replied Miss Brewster; 'I suppose nobody crosses at this time of
the year unless compelled to.'

'I can answer for two passengers that such is the case.'

'Do you mean yourself as one?'

'Yes, myself and my friend.'

'How pleasant it must be,' said Miss Brewster, 'to travel with a friend!
Then one is not lonely. I, unfortunately, am travelling alone.'

'I fancy,' said the gallant Wentworth, 'that if you are lonely while on
board ship, it will be entirely your own fault.'

Miss Brewster laughed a silvery little laugh.

'I don't know about that,' she said. 'I am going to that Mecca of all
Americans--Paris. My father is to meet me there, and we are then going on
to the Riviera together.'

'Ah, that will be very pleasant,' said Wentworth. 'The Riviera at this
season is certainly a place to be desired.'

'So I have heard,' she replied.

'Have you not been across before?'

'No, this is my first trip. I suppose you have crossed many times?'

'Oh no,' answered the Englishman; 'this is only my second voyage, my
first having been the one that took me to America.'

'Ah, then you are not an American,' returned Miss Brewster, with
apparent surprise.

She imagined that a man is generally flattered when a mistake of this
kind is made. No matter how proud he may be of his country, he is pleased
to learn that there is no provincialism about him which, as the Americans
say, 'gives him away.'

'I think,' said Wentworth, 'as a general thing, I am not taken for
anything but what I am--an Englishman.'

'I have met so few Englishmen,' said the guileless young woman, 'that
really I should not be expected to know.'

'I understand it is a common delusion among Americans that every
Englishman drops his "h's," and is to be detected in that way.'

Jennie laughed again, and George Wentworth thought it one of the
prettiest laughs he had ever heard.

Poor Kenyon was rather neglected by his friend during the dinner. He felt
a little gloomy while the courses went on, and wished he had an evening
paper. Meanwhile, Wentworth and the handsome girl beside him got on very
well together. At the end of the dinner she seemed to have some
difficulty in getting up from her chair, and Wentworth showed her how to
turn it round, leaving her free to rise. She thanked him prettily.

'I am going on deck,' she said, turning to go; 'I am so anxious to get my
first glimpse of the ocean at night from the deck of a steamer.'

'I hope you will let me accompany you,' returned young Wentworth. 'The
decks are rather slippery, and even when the boat is not rolling it
isn't quite safe for a lady unused to the motion of a ship to walk alone
in the dark.'

'Oh, thank you very much,' replied Miss Brewster, with effusion. 'It
is kind of you, I am sure; and if you promise not to let me rob you
of the pleasure of your after-dinner cigar, I shall be most happy to
have you accompany me. I will meet you at the top of the stairway in
five minutes.'

'You are getting on,' said Kenyon, as the young woman disappeared.

'What's the use of being on board ship,' said Wentworth, 'If you don't
take advantage of the opportunity for making shipboard acquaintances?
There is an unconventionality about life on a steamer that is not without
its charm, as perhaps you will find out before the voyage is over, John.'

'You are merely trying to ease your conscience because of your heartless
desertion of me.'

George Wentworth had waited at the top of the companion-way a little more
than five minutes when Miss Brewster appeared, wrapped in a cloak edged
with fur, which lent an additional charm to her complexion, set off as it
was by a jaunty steamer cap. They stepped out on the deck, and found it
not at all so dark as they had expected. Little globes of electric light
were placed at regular intervals on the walls of the deck building.
Overhead was stretched a sort of canvas roof, against which the sleety
rain pattered. One of the sailors, with a rubber mop, was pushing into
the gutter by the side of the ship the moisture from the deck. All around
the boat the night was as black as ink, except here and there where the
white curl of a wave showed luminous for a moment in the darkness.

Miss Brewster insisted that Wentworth should light his cigar, which,
after some persuasion, he did. Then he tucked her hand snugly under his
arm, and she adjusted her step to suit his. They had the promenade all to
themselves. The rainy winter night was not so inviting to most of the
passengers as the comfortable rooms below. Kenyon, however, and one or
two others came up, and sat on the steamer chairs that were tied to the
brass rod which ran along the deckhouse wall. He saw the glow of
Wentworth's cigar as the couple turned at the farther end of the walk,
and when they passed him he heard a low murmur of conversation, and
caught now and then a snatch of silvery laughter. It was not because
Wentworth had deserted him that Kenyon felt so uncomfortable and
depressed. He could not tell just what it was, but there had settled on
his mind a strange, uneasy foreboding. After a time he went down into the
saloon and tried to read, but could not, and so wandered along the
seemingly endless narrow passage to his room (which was Wentworth's as
well), and, in nautical phrase, 'turned in.' It was late when his
companion came.

'Asleep, Kenyon?' asked the latter.

'No,' was the answer.

'By George! John, she is one of the most charming girls I ever met.
Wonderfully clever, too; makes a man feel like a fool beside her. She has
read nearly everything. Has opinions on all our authors, a great many of
whom I've never heard of. I wish, for your sake, John, she had a sister
on board.'

'Thanks, old man; awfully good of you, I'm sure,' said Kenyon. 'Don't
you think it's about time to stop raving, get into your bunk, and turn
out that confounded light?'

'All right, growler, I will.'

Meanwhile, in her own state-room, Miss Jennie Brewster was looking at her
reflection in the glass. As she shook out her long hair until it rippled
down her back, she smiled sweetly, and said to herself:

'Poor Mr. Wentworth! Only the first night out, and he told me his name
was George.'




CHAPTER III.


The second day out was a pleasant surprise for all on board who had made
up their minds to a disagreeable winter passage. The air was clear, the
sky blue as if it were spring-time, instead of midwinter. They were in
the Gulf Stream. The sun shone brightly and the temperature was mild.
Nevertheless, it was an uncomfortable day for those who were poor
sailors. Although there did not seem, to the casual observer, to be much
of a sea running, the ship rolled atrociously. Those who had made heroic
resolutions on the subject were sitting in silent misery in their
deck-chairs, which had been lashed to firm stanchions. Few were walking
the clean bright deck, because walking that morning was a gymnastic feat.
Three or four who evidently wished to show they had crossed before, and
knew all about it, managed to make their way along the deck. Those
recumbent in the steamer-chairs watched with lazy interest the
pedestrians who now and then stood still, leaning apparently far out of
the perpendicular, as the deck inclined downward. Sometimes the
pedestrian's feet slipped, and he shot swiftly down the incline. Such an
incident was invariably welcomed by those who sat. Even the invalids
smiled wanly.

Scottish book of the year goes to Kieron Smith, Boy by James Kelman

The barrister Constance Briscoe has won the libel case brought against her by her mother, Carmen Briscoe-Mitchell, over her bestselling misery memoir Ugly, in which she accused Briscoe-Mitchell of childhood cruelty and neglect.

Briscoe-Mitchell claimed the allegations were "a piece of fiction", and sued Briscoe and her publishers Hodder & Stoughton for libel.

A 10-day hearing at the high court in London concluded earlier today with a unanimous verdict from the jury after more than a day's deliberation. Speaking outside the court, Briscoe, a part-time judge, said she was "very happy" with the verdict.

"It is sad that my mother still feels the need to pursue me. Now I just want to get on with my career," she said. "I can quite understand why my family went into collective denial, but whilst child abuse may be committed behind closed doors, it should never be swept under the carpet."

The hearing saw Briscoe tell Mr Justice Tugendhat and a jury how her mother beat her with a stick for wetting the bed, called her a "dirty little whore" and drove her to attempt suicide by drinking bleach.

Briscoe's account of her upbringing was published in 2006 and has sold more than 400,000 copies in the UK.

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Would you have your ashes scattered in Jane Austen's garden?
American film producer to publish version of the Bible in which God says it is better to be gay than straight

The royal family doesn't need a poet

The power of Jane Austen never ceases to amaze: the myriad film and TV adaptations, the biopics, the spin-off self-help books, the novels about Austen book clubs and Austen obsessives and even, next spring, the publication of a book about "how Jane Austen conquered the world" (Jane's Fame, by Clare Harman). And now comes the just-too-weird story that deceased fans of Jane Austen have been banned from having their ashes scattered in her garden. In a letter to the Jane Austen Society, Louise West, the collections manager of Jane Austen's House Museum, wrote: "While we understand many admirers of Jane Austen would love to have ashes laid here, it is something we do not allow. It is distressing for visitors to see mounds of human ash, particularly so for our gardener. Also, it is of no benefit to the garden!" (Or is it? Surely a small quantity of fresh ashes judiciously placed beneath a hydrangea bush is just the ticket?)

Anyway, leaving aside the Gardeners' Question Time minutiae, what on earth is going on here? I like an Austen novel as much as the next person – I probably reread my way through the complete works every couple of years – but I am baffled as to why one would want to be laid to rest among the flowerbeds of Chawton. The only explanation is the currently unstoppable power of the Austen cult, fuelled by Colin Firth in a wet blouse, by Andrew Davies's adaptations, and by Hollywood. I'm all for enjoying books, but the cult of Austen has reached ridiculous proportions. In a post-feminist world that should know better, she seems to be adored as the comforting provider of romantic, happy-endings nonsense instead of the sharp and acerbic social satirist she deserves to be seen as.

(Does anyone actually believe her, by the way, when she foretells a happy marriage for Darcey and Elizabeth? I fear a woman as interesting as Elizabeth would be sorely disappointed with this standard-issue British Repressed Public-school Man - hopeless emotionally, and probably hopeless in bed.)

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