he said, sizing up the elegant cut of her cloth and the sparklers on her fingers. “A huge improvement on that weedy dullard, Thrypp. I’m Mr Charles Dicksen and you are…” “Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna.” Her exotic, aristocratic, multi-syllabic name never failed to impress. It rendered most people mute for a few seconds, some for as long as a minute. He recovered his wits quicker than most. “Well, well, the titan of publishing has certainly stepped up in the world,” he praised obliquely. “If the penny-pinching mountebank ever sacks you make sure you come straight to me. Here is my card.” Mr Dicksen was immaculately attired in frock coat, silk vest, silk cravat, top hat and trousers with a razor-sharp crease that looked lethal. His calling card came with the faint scent of roses. “Gladhill.” She smiled luminously. “Quelle jolie!” “Ah! You speak French. You will be wasted here. Panglossian is a contradiction in terms – a Jewish Philistine. If you work for me your accomplishments will be recognized and rewarded.”
