What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. “Can’t you SEE how things are?” she said. She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked.
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