‘Certainly those are names of the most undistinguished, and I would scorn to have them. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. Before the Monroes I was placed with a single woman, Leslie Cavendish. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Montague Hill, and I do not think that under those circumstances I should be long about it.
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