Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. He uttered a short laugh. Ramage,” she said, clinging to her one point, “I want to get out of this horrible little room. ‘Besides, I don’t want the men blundering in here and frightening off our spy.
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