She stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. The vast mirrored chamber, with its four little square window bays, two either side of the large raised dais that led to the French doors, was very full of company for the start of the Little Season. It appeared he had already ordered dinner and wine, and the whiskered waiter waved in his subordinate with the soup forthwith. Her head dipped deeply into the current, and she narrowly escaped being swamped. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London.
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