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They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes. ‘There were the Comte and Comtesse de St Erme. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. I have arrested him in the King's name. My reception at West Kensington you know of.
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