“A plague on women,” said Orlando to herself, going to the cupboard to fetch a glass of wine, “they never leave one a moment’s peace. A more ferreting, inquisiting, busybodying set of people don’t exist. It was to escape this Maypole that I left England, and now”⁠—here she turned to present the Archduchess with the salver, and behold⁠—in her place stood a tall gentleman in black. A heap of clothes lay in the fender. She was alone with a man.

Recalled thus suddenly to a consciousness of her sex, which she had completely forgotten, and of his, which was now remote enough to be equally upsetting, Orlando felt seized with faintness.

“La!” she cried, putting her hand to her side, “how you frighten me!”

“Gentle creature,” cried the Archduchess, falling on one knee and at the same time pressing a cordial to Orlando’s lips, “forgive me for the deceit I have practised on you!”