From The Continent

25

From The Continent

    “But I don’t want to go the Continent!” cried Pansy.

    Dr Fairbrother ate a nut. “Don’t have to. You’ve got a choice. –Luckier than most,” he noted.

    Pansy scowled. After a moment she said: “They won’t let me live with you.”

    “Know that,” replied the zoologist cheerfully.

    “And the choice,” she said bitterly, “is to live with Delphie and Richard in Bath, or go to London with Aunt Parker!”

    “Mm.”

    “That’s no choice at all!” she cried.

    “Oh, I’m with you,” he said mildly. “Dare say you wouldn’t get another man in England to agree with you, however.”

    Pansy looked sulky. Dr Fairbrother ate nuts unconcernedly, occasionally handing one to Percy.

    Eventually she said: “Paris will be as silly and boring as London.”

    “Mm. Silly and boring in Frog, too. Wouldn’t bother, meself.”

    “I suppose you would take the London option!” she said witheringly.

    “George Hanley would maintain you’d get decent music. Though the choir in Bath is not bad.”

    Pansy went over to the window and stared out for a long time at a damp April street. Dr Fairbrother and Percy shared the last of the nuts more or less in silence, apart from a few chitterings from Percy and a few “Cheep, cheeps” from the zoologist.

    “They will turn me into a young lady whatever I do,” she announced grimly.

    “Mm. When you’re of age, do what you like. Miss Blake’s been thinking about setting up a new school. You might like to talk to her.”

    Pansy ignored this. “I will go to Paris with the Winnafrees,” she decided grimly.

    “Probably what I’d decide, in your shoes,” he owned. “Portia ain’t all bad. And Chauncey’s a decent old stick.”

    “At least they do not have the closed minds of Aunt Parker and Cousin Theo Parker!”

    “True.”

    “Not to mention Richard Amory!” added Pansy viciously.

    “Very decent fellow. Though I agree: closed mind.”

    The wind was taken out of Pansy’s sails. She looked at him uncertainly.

    “He’s what she wants. And I’d say he’d never let her down,” said the zoologist mildly.

    “No.”

    Dr Fairbrother heaved himself out of his chair. “Paris it is, then. Come on, time for the monkeys’ dinners. You can help. The animal world don’t stop just because they turn girls into young ladies.”

    Pansy followed him in silence.

    “I would go, if only it were offered!” cried Dimity.

    Henry bit her lip. “Mm.”

    Dimity looked at her doubtfully. “But if you do go, Henry, you will not see Cousin Aden for a whole Season—more, if Sir Chauncey intends making the Grand Tour.”

    Henry was very pale. She let her get through the whole without interrupting, however. Then she said: “In that case, I shall go.”

    Dimity looked at her dubiously, not knowing what to say. Finally she ventured in small voice: “We shall miss you.”

    Henry’s grim face relaxed a little. “I shall write you faithfully, I promise.”

    Dimity’s face brightened. “The Paris fashions will be delightful, I am sure!”

    “Then I shall do my best to write you exact descriptions of them,” replied her cousin kindly.

    Dimity nodded and smiled and clapped her hands. So Henry tried to smile back, for after all, it was so mean of her to feel so grudging about accepting the treat, when it was not even being offered to Dimity; and did not express her own conviction that Paris would be as boring and silly as London.

My dear Dimity,

    We have not seen anything approaching a fashion as yet, but I write as promised. The Channel crossing was uneventful, apart from Pansy’s telling a sailor who was coiling a rope or some such that he was doing it all wrong. I did not feel in the least queasy, thank goodness. Lady W. stayed in her cabin but we other three spent most of the time on deck. The Admiral told us a lot about other voyages he had made, as you might imagine, but I found it interesting rather than otherwise.

    We find ourselves now outside Dieppe, on the Paris road, but not, somewhat to our dismay, travelling straight there. Sir C. intentions stopping off at a château (!) where he is sure we will be welcomed by M. et Mme Plouvier de la Reysne most warmly. I confess, I have not the courage to enquire whether M. et Mme be expecting us or no!!

    As is his habit Sir C. is travelling well escorted and we have a positive bevy of couriers and grooms and what-nots up behind, preceding, and following, the which I confess makes me feel a lot easier about the thing, though Lady W. assures us that travel is as safe in France as it is in England and Sir C. fusses too much!

    The countryside is unremarkable and it is raining as hard as it was when we left England. But I shall try to describe it for you. At this precise moment it is very flat, though I can see a few massy trees over to our right, with the spire of a village church on the low horizon. The road itself is excellent and Sir C. himself admits that Boney did much to improve the Froggy roads. We are surrounded by ploughed fields with a small crop just showing. I cannot tell what it be. Alas, not extravagantly pretty. There are some scrawny poplars lining the road and we are assured that they are typical of France.

    Lady W. has given up on the landscape and dozed off, and Sir C. and Pansy are playing chess on his travelling set. You will like to hear what Lady W. is wearing so I shall do my poor best! The bonnet is a soft pink velvet lined with paler pink satin and adorned with pink and what I would call russet bows and rosettes. The pelisse likewise, entirely striking, but little of it is visible for an immense shiny black fur cape. Would it be sealskin? I think so. There is an huge muff likewise.

Le lendemain.

    The Château de la Reysne is the hugest pile, most elaborate. Sir C. says it is Baroque, built in the late seventeenth century and very much in the style of Versailles, the which is of little help to my humble self! I have a feeling that this is going to be one of the most lowering experiences of my life!

    M. et Mme Plouvier de la Reysne received us most graciously and we were shown to the hugest bedchambers—each! Though fortunately Pansy and I are next each other. Everything in the château is gilding, with amounts of white marble as to the floors, columns and so forth, and amazingly over-elaborate plasterings as to the ceilings. The “petit salon”, what a misnomer, in which we sat before and after dinner, is nigh a mile long and furnished in the most chilling manner imaginable: gold brocade with more gilding and ormolu work, the most of the seats placed formally round the walls, as we might in a ballroom at home. We were very glad to be able to come up to the fire and sit on a small island of comfortable chairs, adrift in the middle of a sea of parquet!

    The dining-room worse, if anything: huge white marble columns and a small cupola featuring the most charming scene of shepherds and shepherdesses gambolling with lambs on greensward against a clear blue sky! Pray assure Mamma I did not spend the entire meal craning my neck, though very tempted to. The sideboards and so forth very fine, though not in the style we are accustomed to in England: mostly Buhl. Gold plate (!), and the china quite delicious: shepherds and shepherdesses with forget-me-nots and roses, gilt-edged: M. Plouvier de la Reysne apologising that the “good” family set with the crest had been mostly destroyed by “ce monstre Buonaparte.” In person, one presumes.

    He is very gallant and polite, though I would not say of a remarkable intelligence, but she is the most amazing lady! Quite tall, fair, very slender and elegant, though I dare say she is Mamma’s age. Deliciously dressed for dinner, though I fear I cannot describe it sufficiently for you. A shimmering satin, the shade the sky attains just before dawn to presage a baking hot summer’s day at our dear Lower Beighnham. Oh, dear, does that say less than nothing? A very delicate tint. The bodice and sleeves heavily embroidered in crystal beads so that her upper body appeared to shimmer. ln the hair, a diamond spray in the shape of a bird with a long tail. Lady W. said in my ear that only a woman of perfect taste would have refrained from amethysts with that gown, and I could not but feel, in my humble way, that she was so right!

    Mme P. de la R. strikes at first as just another gracious Society lady, but over dinner she revealed herself to have the most amazing knowledge of Continental and English politics, about which she spoke in the wittiest way. I shall not bore you with the details, but I was quite fascinated. M. Plouvier de la R. is to be sent to Russia as the next Ambassador of the French government, a thrilling but terrifying prospect: but Madame assured us that nothing but French is spoken at the Russian court and that the Russians are all most civilized. I could not forebear to say l presumed she meant the aristocracy, not the serfs, and was it not a wonder the Russians had not had a revolution on the lines of the French one? Of course it was the most frightful faux pas and there was the horridest silence for a moment! Then Madame said but of course, she herself had always wondered just that, and she feared that in spite of the elegance of the court it was a most unhappy country. She then spoke at length on the condition of the Russian people, and she is just so well-informed! I can see why the French wish to send him: it is on account of her, there can be no doubt.

    The meal was long-drawn-out with innumerable dishes, with which I shall not bore you: l thought of Mr Tobias Vane and had to smile.

    We are to be on our way after luncheon today, the which is rather a pity, for I would like to see more of the fascinating Mme P. de la R. But she assures us she will be in Paris very soon: her daughters are still in the schoolroom but she is to bring out “la fille de la Cousine Angélique.” They were both present at dinner last night. La Cousine Angélique belies her name, a dumpy, undistinguished woman, and Marthe, the daughter, sadly rather a pudding. But perhaps under the influence of her charming cousine she will blossom! The eldest son of the house was also present, and appeared much impressed by Pansy’s account of our crossing, the which did not neglect such points as riggings and spars. He must know about boats for when she did not know the French words he translated most ably. He is quite a pretty young man, and put me in mind forcibly of Mr Edward Claveringham, though I do not think he is the type that would sit out with the Porky Potters of this world! Pansy did not appear much impressed by him, so you may make what you wish of it!

    It continues drizzly but here is Pansy insisting we should take a turn in the (horridly formal) gardens before luncheon, so I shall seal this up and take advantage of M. Plouvier de la Reysne’s kind offer to see all our home mail dispatched.

    My love to the family; I shall write again very soon.

Your loving cousin,

Henry.

    “Hmf!” grunted Dr Fairbrother, sniffing at the sealed letter. “No need to ask who this is from, eh, Percy? Cheep, cheep, cheep! Well, it’ll be something and nothing, and you can eat it an you wish, sweetheart!”

    Saying which, he sat down in his chair before the fire and opened it eagerly.

My dearest Wynn,

    Chauncey has positively ordered me to spend a quiet morning in my boudoir writing notes, so me voici, the obedient wife! He is keeping very well, Dieu soit béni, so I shall not bore on about what Dr Mercier says, the which is only what we expected. Tho’ it is beyond the combined efforts of the entire household to force him to stay abed of a fine morning like this one, and he has taken the girls out for a ride in the barouche.

    Dearest Brother, there is so much to say but you will say it is all Nothings, so where do I start? Pansy’s pink dress? Les beaux yeux de M. le Vicomte d’Arresnes, the which have positively ensnared Henry’s virgin heart? The considerably less virgin heart of that vache espagnole, the Señora Consuelo Figueroa y Valdez-Sepulveda, who dared to make eyes from her box at Chauncey at the opera last night? Little M. Jean-Louis Plouvier de la Reysne’s sonnet on Pansy’s eyes? Je te le jure, mon cher frère! The most abominable thing you can imagine, the metre most horridly strict: you know the French alexandrine, da-dah, da-dah for ever and a day, surely the most tedious verse form in the World in the hands of less than a Ronsard!

    Naturellement Victor Plouvier de la R. not best pleased, tho’ Geneviève, bless her, will only laugh and say it is just la jeunesse, and if Victor does not look, it will simply go away of its own accord! Victor as dull and worthy as ever, did you know he is to have Russia? Mayhap the intention is to convince our gallant allies that the French may be as worthy, tedious and solid as any nation under the sun. I cannot conceive what else poor Victor could convince ’em of! Renewed his so-gallant offer to moi-même, lequel va sans dire, an I say it myself, but I graciously refused.

    You will say, Did she have a Better offer, but that would be telling! Tho’ I will say just this, that le petit prince H.-L. is the most delicious boy imaginable, great soft brown eyes. Hates France and has privily declared his intention of going “home” to England next year, poor lad. Well, after all, growing up in Leamington Spa—or was it Tunbridge Wells? No matter—is scarcely a preparation for the grand formalities of Versailles. And you may take that any way you please. Chauncey has wondered audibly, tho’ not in H.R.H.’s actual presence, what the Devil we got him his country back for!!

    James insisted on accompanying us, naughty boy, tho’ l will admit to you, dear Wynn, that I was glad to have him to keep an eye on Chauncey during the journey. He teazes Pansy most horribly every time he has the opportunity to speak with her. She still has not the slightest notion who he is. Chauncey is starting to become irritated over it, and in any case James should be back in England, he is neglecting his duties woefully, so I think he may leave us soon.

    Dear John writes from London that he has met Miss Dimity Parker and reading between the lines seems quite épris in that direction. It may answer, the girl is a Ninny but seems well-meaning enough, and John is not the man to wish for a wife with an intelligence to equal his own. And she has a respectable fortune, tho’ if that ever weighed yet with a Winnafree I have yet to hear of it!

    Speaking of which, Perseus Winnafree is in Paris! Wynn, you will never guess, he broke a Faroah bank; somewhere in Austria, I think it was: at all events, he had the most amazing run of luck and accumulated a Positive Fortune, and has bought an immense hôtel, formerly the property of a very august family who all went to Mme la Guillotine, not a stone’s throw from the Palais du Louvre. He has done it out in the style of the Grand Turk! Chauncey grumbles that he is injuring the family name but James nigh to laughed himself into a Fit over it. The entrance hall is all in the solidest, horridest French fashion, heavy dark green marble, but when one is shown into the salon one nearly faints, for it is all entirely hung with Persian carpets as to the walls, and tiled in bright blue as to the floor, and he has installed a small fountain, which Plays! With countless pierced skreens in the Arab fashion, and giant brass chandeliers and howdahs, I do not mean that: those extraordinary water-pipes, oodahs or some such; and silken couches and cushions and giant Palms as if the room were a conservatory, and to cap it all he has obtained three black footmen, à la her Ladyship the Dowager Duchess of Hubbel, whom he dresses in the most outrageous Oriental pantaloons with their chests nekkid!! They station themselves around the room and fan one gently, the which is entirely necessary, for in addition to a normal fireplace there is an huge porcelain stove in the German style and the room is hot as a furnace. Perseus very point de vice in the middle of it all, though when with his intimates he sports a velvet Turkish cap. And smokes the oodah. Outlandish!

    Dear little Henry is much taken with the silly old thing, and has fallen into the habit of sitting with him in the afternoons. Well, he is harmless enough, and if he believes she is entirely taken in by his traveller’s tales, I dare say that will not hurt either of them! I think she is Moping for Mr T. still, the which I cannot see is a bad thing: killingly handsome, is he not? I confess I could not resist him! But I ask myself, would I have done so at her age?

    At this point Lady Winnafree’s brother snorted loudly and riffled through the voluminous sheets of the violet-scented letter in search of more news of Pansy.

    ... Pansy has develloped a taste for the opera: you would have laughed to hear her crossly shushing young Jean-Louis Plouvier de la Reysne, who was silly enough to dare to speak during the Mozart! She chose a pink dress for that night herself, but I fear it was not for J.-L.’s benefit after all. Still, that is great progress, for one who got aboard on the far side of La Manche declaring she could not see that a rational female needed more than one respectable evening dress to her name! Henry was delicious in a dark blue gauze over lighter blue satin, you may say it was not entirely suitable for a child of her age, but unless she is in glowing looks she tends to appear insipid in white or very pastel shades. Geneviève congratulated me on both girls’ appearance, so I think I am not making such a bad fist of the chaperoning thing! It is a pity that Aeriel refused to accompany us, I think she would enjoy Pansy’s and Henry’s company, but as you know, there is no arguing with a girl of that age. Never mind, there will be time enough to bring her out next year, and we are spared Chauncey on the subject of her “skinny” figure!

    Talking of which, we were driving in the Bois t’other day with the hood down, it being gloriously fine, and saw the most extraordinary sight: Mme la Princesse P. in a bright yellow velvet habit (!) perched up on a great black: thinner than ever, those odd slanted black eyes snapping, and the face still that dead white: poudrée, out of course, and why she affects it I shall never know. Accompanied by, believe it or believe not, mon cher frère, Alec Ramsay and “Bompey” du Fresne! Well! Chauncey of course aux anges to meet two such old friends, and Bompey not displeased to see yours truly: but alas, I could not absolutely Reciprocate! Pansy, however, quite terrifically fluttered to meet l’Amiral du F., and said if he had been at Trafalgar the French would have won, the which made him laugh like Nothing, for he is the most confirmed Royaliste possible! Pansy then terribly overcome at having said the Wrong Thing, if you can believe it, mon cher, so Bompey insisted on getting into the barouche next her in order to assure her he was entirely flattered! They and Chauncey refought the naval campaigns of the entire late Conflict during the drive home.

    Alec Ramsay much quieter but I would not say he was entirely unimpressed by little Henry. Nor she by him, for with that slash of white in the black hair and the sabre scar on the right cheek he is the most Romantick figure! I managed to have a private word later and said what on earth did he imagine he was doing? At which he makes a moue, you know that sardonic way of his, and says a fellow’s occupation is gone since Waterloo, what would I? But dear man, la Princesse P.? says I. O, he says, with one of his shrugs, faute de mieux! But he sends you his kindest remembrances, dear Bro. And his little “Mary May” is now a grandmother, tu te l’imagines? But Bonny Prince Parrot is still going strong, the language worse than ever, and the grandchildren adore it! Land, does not time fly?

     Dr Fairbrother at this juncture was driven to groan aloud and skip again.

    ... Pansy made a great hit at the La Marre reception, in white gauze, a single broad ruffle at the hem, the whole embroidered in the most delicate tracery of white silk in a pattern of cherry blossom. The curls very much up, which makes her appear older and emphasises the cheekbones, with just a little twist of white ribbon and a tiny pearl pin from Chauncey. Carried H.-L.’s posy but alas, only because it was white! André de la Marre went as pale as his linen on setting eyes on her and could not take ’em off her for the entire evening! I said to her, My love, that is a Great Catch, a widower, you know: all the Cats in the room are wishing you would drop dead or worse, sprout a spot on the instant, and she went very pink and laughed, so I think she was not unaffected! As who would not, my dear: André de la Marre! The little vicomte also much struck but he is not a tenth the man his father is and Pansy appeared more than aware of this! André gave her the most brûlant of looks at the conclusion of the evening, I swear I shivered in my shoes even tho’ it were not directed at me (alas!), and said, Would he see her at the Von Alpitz ball?

    That is tonight, so we shall see what we shall see! He never dances.

    Dr Fairbrother sighed, and skimmed through the rest of it. “Well, Portia asks after you, Percy, suppose that shows she ain’t forgotten entirely what life over here on the wrong side of La Manche is like, eh?” he said glumly.

    Percy chittered sleepily inside his coat.

    Patting him vaguely, Dr Fairbrother said heavily: “Aye. Well, they all sound too damned old.” He paused. “Or too damned young and stupid.”

    Percy did not react.

    Sighing again, Dr Fairbrother folded the violet-scented letter up very carefully and, far from handing it to the marmoset to dine upon, put it away in his pocket-book. “Wish damned Pansy would write,” he admitted glumly.

    Pansy did write very soon after, but not to the zoologist.

    “How exciting!” cried Lady Jane as a puffing Mary presented her new mistress with the letters, and the one from Pansy was revealed. It was addressed to the Commander: even though it was perhaps not the thing to open one’s correspondence at table, he did so immediately.

    “Well, my love?” cried Lady Jane eagerly.

    He looked up with a twinkle in the blue eye. “Delphie must have written her: she sends love and hopes you are keeping very well, and congratulates us on our good news.”

    Very pink and smiling, Lady Jane nodded, but said: “But what does she say of Paris, Leith?”

    The Commander was about to say she must read it for herself, when he caught sight of Mary’s agog face. “Er—well, it ain’t about the fashions: if that’s what you’re expecting you’re in for a disapp—”

    “Don’t tease!” she cried loud/y.

    The Commander said solemnly: “She has met l’Amiral du Fresne.”

     “Who?” said Lady Jane weakly.

    “It’ll be a Froggy, me Lady,” offered Mary helpfully.

    “Certainly. A Froggy admiral. But not one of Boney’s: a Royalist Froggy admiral,” said Commander Carey.

    “Well, read it out!” cried his misguided spouse.

    The Commander read it out. It was very brief and consisted entirely, after the enquiry after Lady Jane’s health and the bald announcement: “We have meet l'Amiral du Fresne,” of a summation of the Admiral’s views on the naval campaigns of the late conflict.

    “You are teasing,” said Lady Jane limply as her husband concluded abruptly: “‘Yr Faithful Friend, Pansy Ogilvie.’”

    “No. That’s Pansy for you.”

    “Give it here!” she cried crossly.

    The Commander handed her the letter, his face expressionless.

    “Don’t she even mention a—a dress or any party what they might have gorn to, me Lady?” asked Mary wistfully, as complete silence fell over the Carey breakfast table.

    “No,” admitted Lady Jane sadly.

    “Well, don’t she even ask after Horatio Nelson Cat?” she cried loudly.

    “Um—no.”

    “I never heard of such a thing!” cried Mary angrily, rushing out.

    “Oh, dear,” said Lady Jane limply.

    The Commander shrugged a little, and passed her the butter.

    The post was delivered quite early in the respectable London street not very far from Blefford Square where Mr Theo Parker had hired a house for himself, his mamma and his cousin for the Season. And as Dimity was usually not up very early she generally opened hers over her breakfast. Theo was late down this morning: she watched avidly as he sorted through the letters.

    “There are two from Henry,” he said with his kind smile: “but I am afraid only for myself and Mamma, this time, Dimity.”

    “Oh. Well, it wasn’t really my turn,” she said bravely.

    “No. Will you excuse me?”

    Dimity nodded hard and Theo opened his letter.

    “Well?” she said eagerly as he laid it down at last.

    “Uh—oh,” said Theo limply. “Well, you must read it if you wish, my dear Cousin, but I should warn you that it is largely about the great cathedrals. They have visited Rouen, and she compares it to Notre Dame de Paris: you remember she wrote Mamma how very much struck she was by the great nave?”

    “Mm,” said Dimity, her face falling.

    “She has not mentioned dresses or parties, I dare say she thought I would not be interested. But please, read it.” Theo passed her the letter.

    Dimity began to read avidly, but soon looked up to say in dismay: “There’s bits in Latin, Theo!”

    “Er—oh. Yes, I’m afraid so. She is talking about the Latin mass, there.”

    “She went to a Roman Catholic ceremony?” gasped Dimity in horror.

    Theo replied tranquilly: “Several. Well, there is not very much opportunity in France to attend a Protestant one. But they do go to English service, when they are in Paris of a Sunday.”

    “But Theo, are you not shocked?” she cried.

    “Well, no, my dear.”

    Dimity looked at him uncertainly. After a moment she said: “Perhaps it’s as well that you decided you would give up the Church.”

    Theo flushed up but said in his quiet way: “Perhaps my former bishop would agree, though he is a most liberal-minded man.”

    Dimity returned to the letter. Eventually she reported wistfully: “There’s lots of French bits, too, and they’re awfully hard.”

    “That’s when she’s talking about the architecture. I think?”

    “Um… arc something.”

    “Arc boutant, yes. She seems to have talked to the guides, or perhaps they were vergers or some such, and so she would have been thinking in French, you see.” He looked at her face again and said gently: “Shall I translate those bits, then?”

    Nodding gratefully, Dimity handed the letter back.

    Theo translated the hard bits carefully, not allowing his face to reflect his thought, which was, How could a sensible man such as John Winnafree, M.P., who thought just as he ought on the poor laws and the like, ever dream of linking his fate with that of a silly little thing like Dimity Parker?

    “From Henry, at last!” said Lady Harpingdon gaily. “Now!”

    “Huzza!” cried the two little Narrowmine girls, clapping their hands. “Read it, Mamma!”

    It had been all Charlotte’s and Veronica’s own idea to call Alfreda “Mamma.” No-one of the household at Harpingdon Manor had been in the least surprised by it, except the modest Alfreda herself.

    “Er—well, parts of it may be too old for you, my loves,” said Alfreda, recollecting in time that Henry was no longer a little girl, herself. And that some of her remarks in the last, about Lady W. and M. P. de la R. or l’Amiral du F., for example, had really been a little… “I shall just read it through first, shall I?

    Nodding hard, Charlotte and Veronica sat down on their little stools by Mamma’s skirts and waited patiently while she read through Aunt Henry’s letter.

My dearest Alfreda,

    Well, the Season is over and Sir Chauncey is impatient to be off to the South of France and take ship for Italy, and has set the house in a bustle packing, so this is the last letter I shall write you from the capitale du Monde! Or so silly little M. Plouvier de la Reysne assures me all civilized people think of it!

    I have so much news I know not where to start. So I think I shall give you the frivolous nonsense first, and the more serious later, but be assured you need not rush to the end, for it is not so serious as all that.

    Very naturally Alfreda immediately rushed to the end. But it was not so serious as all that, and Henry seemed to have dealt with it very capably and responsibly, so she returned to her place, to read the letter through in its proper order.

    Little M. Plouvier de la Reysne has proposed to Pansy! You may laugh: we did. It was the most absurd start. Of all places, at the Austrian Ambassador’s ball! Very grand indeed, my love, horrific numbers of footmen and everything gilded or marbled or both: you know the style of thing. Dear Lady W. says to tell you “Blefford Park in French” and you will have the idea! The most huge and ghastly painting of a battle, full of dying horses, meets one on the immense landing as one mounts the stairs very, very, very slowly in the crush of the receiving line—the ballroom being on the first floor, or more accurately being the first floor. One’s nerves, you will readily perceive, are already shattered by the time one totters in to makes one’s curtsey to M. l’Ambassadeur and Mme l’Ambassadrice.

    He is a nullity and will tell one at the drop of a mere half-dozen foreign orders of his connection with the House of Hapsburg. She is icily grande dame and will tell one at the mere wave of a lorgnette of her connections with Feue la Reine Marie-Antoinette on the one hand and the Houses of Hohenzollern and Bourbon on the other. At least, I think it is two different hands. I will not mention blankets, though as you may imagine, they are also in there somewhere! She is the sort of woman who inspires one with an instant desire to sing the Ça ira!

    The gentle Alfreda winced, and decided to censor this entire passage severely for the children.

    We had survived the rigours of this particular receiving line—Mme l’Am. horridly grand in bright violet satin slashed with crimson velvet, bizarre is not the word, added to which she had a train in the style of the late Empress J. (!)—and were actually dancing and chatting with some agreeable gentlemen, to wit, General Ramsay, young Mr Stornaway from our Embassy, M. l’Amiral du Fresne, his pleasant nephew, M. Gérard du Fresne, and his friend, the young Vicomte d’Arresnes, when up comes M. Plouvier de la Reysne in a waistcoat of the blinding variety with innumerable fobs, and the most choking neckcloth I ever laid eyes on! Any efforts in that line by Mr Edward C. or Mr Shirley R. must pale by comparison, alas. Orders are very much worn in Paris, only M. Plouvier de la Reysne has not any, so he could not. But the fobs almost made up for their absence. Ah! Mlle Pansy is again carrying his flowers! Quelle extase! He calls her “Mlle Pansy” on the excuse that “Ogilvie” is too hard for his poor Froggy tongue to get around. It gets around “Ramsay” very well and even “Winnafree” not too badly, so you may believe that one or not, as you will!

    General Ramsay at this was driven to suggest that he go and lie down before the extase quite overcame him, but M. P. de la R. only giggled. Ugh. Possibly it was the giggling, but Pansy was then driven to say in a careless voice that she had not realised they were his flowers: she was carrying them because they matched her gown. Now she is a horrid cruelle, words to that effect, and he will weep if she does not instantly honour him with a dance. Gallant Admiral du F. steps in with a counter-offer but General Ramsay, explaining that the French have a good grasp of tactics but no strategy, points out that she should dance with him now and get it over with for the rest of the evening! More giggling from M. Plouvier de la Reysne, ugh. So Pansy goes off with him before the two older gentlemen can become violently ill, as they now show signs of doing.

    I danced that one with General Ramsay and what with the hint of the soft Scotch accent and the scar and the white slash in the dark hair, which I think I have bored you with in a previous letter, my dear sister, l was not in a state to notice anything very much, the more so as it was a waltz and he is the most divine waltzer! Alfreda, I cannot describe it! Manly but graceful? That sounds totally absurd, but he is!

    Alfreda was visited abruptly by a vision of the dust and chalk rising in the almost deserted Tarlington ballroom, while poor Cousin Aden endeavoured to drag Henry away from Rob Roy—only to get his feet trodden on for his pains. “Oh, Henry,” she said limply.

    “What, Mamma? What?” cried the little girls eagerly.

    Jumping, Lady Harpingdon said feebly: “Oh—nothing, girls. Aunt Henry has danced with a—a very gallant soldier. A general.”

    “Ooh!” they cried.

    Girding up her loins, Alfreda returned to the letter.

    Pansy told me the whole a little later. During the dance M. P. de la R. sighed meaningly and generally made a cake of himself, and then as it ended suggested they sit out for a moment in a little alcove. As you know, Pansy is no Porky Potter—and M. P. de la R. is no Adonis, though a pretty enough young man—but she was seized by a dreadful desire to see what he would do, so she agreed. No sooner did he have her imprisoned on a shocking apple-green cut-velvet sofa—we think Mme l’Am. must pattern the Embassy furnishings after her gowns, or possibly vice versa, they are not only equally horrid but horrid after the same style—as l say, no sooner is Pansy sat down upon it, than the poor fool drops to his knees, clasps her frail hand in his manly ones (pinkish, warmish and dampish—ugh!) and swears eternal fidelity, meanwhile offering her all his worldly goods. I spare you the French, my love, but that is precisely what he said. Alfreda, he has not a groat in the world, as is known all over Paris! His mamma is shockingly expensive, as is also known all over Paris, and if the Plouvier de la Reysnes got the château back after the Revolution with most of the plate and some of the china intact, that is about all! One uncle had his head cut off, and good riddance, but there are two more who ostensibly adorn some French cavalry regiment or another but actually are another shocking drain on the estates. And it is said, though humble persons such as ourselves cannot know how true it be, that the Russian appointment has cost M. P. de la R., père, a small fortune besides.

    Pansy might have held herself in had he not mentioned the worldly goods, but at that she became instantly incensed, as who would not in her place, and said with a sigh and a simper that she feared he was but mocking a simple English maiden!! Utterly taken in, he protests more undying devotion, etcetera, etcetera. So Pansy lays her free hand to her bosom in an affected way worthy of Porky Potter in person and sighs: “Ah! Puis-je? Osé-je?” The deluded one at her feet urges: “Mais oui, mon adorée, mon ange!” or words to that effect, and Pansy snatches her hand out of his clammy paw and tells him roundly that he is nothing but a miserable little fortune-hunter and she would not have him or his broken-down château that the English and Prussians got back for his cowardly family if he was the last man on earth. And to grow up and start behaving like a man, not a spoilt boy, and do some good in the world!

    I make no doubt that most of the latter was so much Greek to M. P. de la R., but the “cowardly” and the mention of the English and Prussians struck deep into his French soul, and he bounded to his feet and informed her she was an ungrateful baggage who should be honoured at such an offer from one of the oldest names of France! Fortunately M. le Vicomte d’Arresnes has favoured us with the true facts of his family history, so Pansy was able to wither him with the announcement that his several-greats grandfather had been a rascally butcher under Louis XIV who made a fortune out of supplying the troops with rotten meat, and that furthermore she would prefer a hard-working butcher to his ci-devant self. Of course “ci-devant” is the grossest of insults in France today and he rushed out, red as a beet. And presumably left the ball, for we did not see him any more that evening.

    We expected Mme P. de la R. to cut us after that, but she was more gracious than ever, and took Pansy aside privily and said that young men could be very stupid, but she was glad to know that Pansy had behaved like a sensible girl. So he must have run off and told Maman the whole, the great baby!”

     Alfreda smiled a little, but also sighed and shook her head a little.

    “What, Mamma?” cried the twins.

    “Oh, nothing very much, my dears. Um—well, here is a bit Aunt Henry has written especially for you! I shall read it out directly!” She did so, with considerable relief.

    The next frivolous thing was an al fresco expedition along the River Seine: I shall tell it in detail, as I think Charlotte and Veronica will like to hear of it. General Ramsay and Admiral du Fresne arranged it all between them, and tho’ Lady Winnafree was in the plot, as also dear Sir Chauncey, it was sprung on Pansy and myself as a great surprise. We were urged into our best sprig muslins with our new straw bonnets—Pansy with apricot ribbons on her bonnet, and I with striped blue and white, and our sashes to match, tell the girls—and driven out very early in the barouche. We could not imagine what was to happen. Then lo! We took boats just by the Pont Neuf and were rowed for I dare say as much as two hours! It was so fascinating, first to see the wonderful old historic buildings on the Ile de la Cité and the Ile Saint-Louis, and then gradually to reach what the Parisians call la banlieue: no evidence of the late conflict there, but pretty, modern houses with neat gardens lining the water—and then the wider reaches of the river and the true countryside.

    And there in a meadow was the most beautiful tent, with a pink-fringed awning and twisted gold tentpoles! Ridiculous, but utterly charming! The tent sheltered a most delicious picknick, with a selection of little gilt chairs in the case we should not wish to be very champêtres after all or the weather should suddenly turn against us; but the sun shone out of a forget-me-not sky and we all unfurled our parasols and voted to sit on the grass like shepherds and shepherdesses. Though the chilled champagne and the strawberries and cream, not to mention the tiny tartlets and the cold chicken, were far daintier viands than shepherds and shepherdesses could have dreamed of, e’en in the Vale of Arcady. Which was where we felt we were!

    General Ramsay had arranged for music, and no sooner were we seated than it struck up, and round the bend of the river where the bullrushes grew tall appeared a garlanded punt complete with string quartet! We had to laugh a little, but they played delightfully. We felt shockingly spoilt, ci-devant and decadent, and I blush to admit it, enjoyed every last moment of it!

    The meal finished with sweetmeats, including the most stunning brandied fruits, very sweet, so that at first one tastes only the sweetness: then suddenly the alcohol takes one by the throat! They would not have done for Charlotte and Veronica, and after two plums and four cherries each, Pansy and I felt almost intoxicated and had to stop! The gentlemen meanwhile becoming very silly and trying to force more on one, you know the style, and General Ramsay holding cherries for one by the stalk.

    But the other sweetmeats were lovely and the girls would so have enjoyed them, and so would Lucy and Daniel, and I felt it was such a pity I could not wrap up some in my napkin and bring them home in my reticule! I never had such a delightful time in my life, and I would say, why is it that one has such times only in France? Except that General Ramsay is British, not French! But then, there is the Scotch influence: I dare say he has a Romantick soul.

    Certain of the company elected to doze for the remainder of the afternoon. Sir Chauncey was an impressive sight under a large oak tree, his kerchief over his face, the immense mound of his stomach rising and falling as he snored! Most of us took to the river again and had a glorious time, becoming only slightly splashed in the process! Pansy insisted on rowing Admiral du Fresne, M. Gérard du Fresne, and M. le Vicomte d’Arresnes in their boat, and General Ramsay laughed so much at the sight that he nearly fell out of ours. He can also steer a punt, quite a feat, for of course one risks being left behind with the pole in the water! I did not venture it, but after the musicians had been sent to have their meal in the tent, Pansy and the General between them gave us a demonstration. Strangely, he appeared most graceful when he did it, but she appeared, much tho’ I love her, quite ridiculous. I think it was because she is so short and the punt pole so long. But she did it very competently; and clearly, pray tell the girls, there is nothing to stop a young woman learning to handle a punt! And I dare swear if you ask him Theo will teach Charlotte and Veronica when next you visit him at his house in Oxford.

    The Misses Narrowmine greeting this proposal with loud cheers, Lady Harpingdon could not but conclude that her sister had struck just the right note. She read on, but not, however, aloud.

    This next had best be for your ears alone, Alfreda, at least yours and Christian’s. For it is rather shocking, though I suppose understandable enough.

    It was a very warm afternoon and, Pansy’s company having been solicited by Mme P. de la R.’s petite cousine, Marthe, I was left a little at a loose end, for Sir Chauncey was napping and Lady W. had gone out earlier to visit her dressmaker. General Ramsay happened to call, so I said, if it would not be improper, perhaps we might stroll up towards the Madeleine and thence the Butte Montmartre, which is said to be quite delightfully rusticke, with charming little vine-draped taverns and so forth. He did not think we would get that far, but was agreeable to a walk, so we strolled up towards the great church. The streets were almost deserted, the Parisian habit being to take a long siesta in the middle of the day, after their Parisian habit of an huge meal in the middle of the day, tu vois! I could not but admit he was right, it was such a languid afternoon, we could not possibly walk right on up the hill and out of the city.

    We went into the church and enjoyed the quiet gloom for a little, though it is not so fine a structure as Notre Dame, of course, and then wandered on out into a maze of little side streets.

 

    By this time I was horridly thirsty and very glad to sit down in a little café and accept a glass of mint cordial. The General had a glass of ale, you would not think that was a French drink, would you? But apparently it is. The Frankish and Norman influences, he claims, but I will not bore you with that theory! There was nothing in sight on the narrow little street except a small boy lugging a heavy basket. We were chatting in an exceeding desultory fashion and General Ramsay was doing his best to fan me with a tired-looking menu he had acquired off the fat little proprietor, when a hire carriage rattled up and drew up at one of the buildings opposite. Mostly small shops or artisans on the ground floor, with dwellings above, the usual French style.

    The ground-floor door to one of the sets of apartments opened and to my shock I perceived Lady W. in her good blue silk with her matching blue bonnet emerge from the house on a gentleman’s arm! She was veiled in a Chantilly scarf which I have seen her wear an hundred times: I could not mistake her. We both heard her say: “Alors, au revoir, mon petit; à demain, n’est-ce pas?” The gentleman, who was in his shirt-sleeves, kissed her hand, and General Ramsay and I perceived it was the young Vicomte d’Arresnes. Alfreda, he is young enough to be her son: he is only Ludo’s age. We were turned to stone, as you may imagine, as he put her into the carriage, gave the driver the address of the Winnafrees’ hotel, and waved her off. We heard every syllable, the café being open to the street and the afternoon so still.

    Eventually poor General Ramsay managed to say: “I am sorry you had to see that, my dear.” Of course I said that I was not so naïve as all that, and Lady W. is a very lovely woman and Sir C. an elderly gentleman. But! To know vaguely of such things is one thing, but to see with your own eyes! In spite of our delightfully decadent picknick by the river, it made me feel that I am not cut out for this frivolous Society life, after all; and I wished very much to be just Papa’s little girl, safe home at Lower Beighnham again. General Ramsay was so kind: he must have seen I was very shocked, but did not remark further upon it, just procured me a cup of tea, which tasted curiously stale and dusty but which nevertheless was very welcome indeed, and walked me slowly home again, holding my parasol for me.

    Oh, dear. I did not know how I could face her at dinner, but she was just the same. I don’t think I betrayed myself. I did eventually tell Pansy, but it was several days before I could bring myself to. She said she was not surprised, and that she had known forever about her and Sir N.A. Did you know of that? I suppose all London does. But at least he is nearer her age than the Vicomte!

    Alfreda sighed a little, but it was nothing more nor less than she had expected. Though she would not have cared to have been in Henry’s place at the time of the discovery. Well—all kittens had to grow into cats some time. But it was a little sad, all the same, that Henry had had to find out in such a way.

    The other rather more serious thing that happened, dear Alfreda, is that Mr Stornaway from the Embassy asked Sir Chauncey if it would be acceptable for him to write to Papa for permission to pay his addresses. Most luckily dear Sir Chauncey is a modern man and instead of arranging all between the gentlemen, as would certainly have been done in previous centuries, spoke privily to me to ascertain my feelings upon the matter. I had to tell him that, pleasant though young Mr Stornaway is, I could never feel for him in that manner. To say truth, I was a little shocked, for I did not think his attentions to myself had been at all marked, and though I have danced with him at several parties now, I most certainly did not intend to show him any particular encouragement. I said as much to Sir Chauncey and he patted my hand and said that no, a true gentleman does not show a very young lady marked attentions, even tho’ his affections be involved, before he has spoken to her papa. And, to my relief, that of course I had not encouraged him improperly or distinguished between him and any other gentleman. Alfreda, I was conscious of a strong wish that we had had a sensible, kindly and knowledgeable man of the world such as Sir Chauncey to look after us in London: perhaps he would have been able to manage it so that it did not all turn to disaster, after all.

    I have just read over what I have, and it is silly and self-regarding of me, for of course it was far from a disaster that you met dear Christian. But you know what I mean. l cannot say how glad I am that we now have dear Sir Chauncey to look to us. He said that as there had been no formal offer, I should not need to see Mr Stornaway privily, and I need not and should not refer to the matter, he would speak to him for me. I felt a rank coward, but most terribly relieved! And Sir Chauncey assured me that Mr Stornaway would, in his words, “make himself scarce” after that, and so it has proven. He was at the party we were at last night but merely bowed, did not approach. I must hasten to add there is nothing wrong with him, and he comes of a most respectable family and the Ambassador thinks very highly of him. But I cannot care for him.

    “Is that all, Mamma?” asked Charlotte sadly, as Alfreda sighed and nodded and folded the letter up slowly.

    “What?” she said, jumping. “Oh! I beg your pardon, my dears. There is very little else that would interest you, but I will read you the end:”

    Pansy has just come in to say that my presence is urgently required in order to help prevent Lady Winnafree from ordering her unfortunate maid to make absolutely all of her summer gowns instantly available on the journey to the South of France! We are to travel by easy stages, and Sir Chauncey has promised we shall visit Arles, to which I am so looking forward. His yacht is being sent round to Nice and we shall take ship there, and sail off to Italy! Does not that sound Romantick! Pansy is very keen to visit Corsica, which of course is the birthplace of You-Know-Who, but Sir C. has declared it to be “a nothing sort of a place” with “a coastline like the Devil’s jawbone,” so mayhap we shall leave it to Windward, or some such!

    I shall try to write on the journey, tho’ what the inland posts from France may be like I know not. We shall have couriers and what-nots again, out of course, and in the case Sir Chauncey sends Dispatches home they will bring ours, too. So possibly the next missive you receive will not have been written “Somewhere At Sea in the Med.!”

All my love, dearest Alfreda, to yourself, Christian, Veronica and Charlotte,

Henry.

    “Letters at last!” said Richard Amory gaily.

    His wife arose and fell on them without a word. The Colonel watched silently as she devoured them. Eventually, as she did not speak, just laid the letters in her lap and looked blankly across her pleasant little morning-room, he said: “Well?”

    Delphie swallowed. “You must read them, of course. This one is from Lady Winnafree.” She swallowed again.

    “Go on, how many ineligibles have offered for Pansy?”

    “Well—um—yes, it is largely about— Richard, you are too sharp!” said his wife with a weak laugh.

    Richard Amory smiled a little, and picked up Lady Winnafree’s letter.

    “One ineligible, one almost eligible, and one so very eligible that I—I can scarce credit it,” said Delphie hoarsely.

    “Oh? And is it Lady Winnafree’s opinion that they were all on account of the fortune?”

    “Um—well, no, not the very eligible— He must be mad!” said Delphie fervently.

    “That’s very flattering to your sister, my love,” he murmured, shoulders shaking.

    “Richard, he’s more than twice her age, he has a grown-up family, and—and— Well, read it!” she said wildly. “And then read what Pansy says of it!”

    Looking wry, the Colonel skimmed through Lady Winnafree’s letter. Portia had not expressed herself as freely to Delphie Amory as she would have to her own brother, for instance, but it was fairly free nevertheless. The ineligible was a M. Lamartine, whom they had bumped into in Dieppe. In Paris he had renewed acquaintance with the young ladies in one day in the Tuileries gardens, when they were escorted only by Messieurs Jean Plouvier de la Reysne, Gérard du Fresne and one of Portia’s footmen. None of these male persons, it appeared, had had the sense to warn M. Lamartine off, even though, according to Portia, he had “chevalier d’industrie” written all over him. A mop of greasy black curls and an oily smile to match, was how she described him. They had seen him after that at unending parties, though not, underlined Lady Winnafree, at their Embassy or at the Hôtel Plouvier de la Reysne, and then one fine afternoon, having inserted himself into the house by unknown means, he had thrown himself at Pansy’s feet in the downstairs salon and proposed. Pansy had attempted to laugh it off, but Monsieur had become rather pressing, so she had seized a handy vase and broken it over his head. Fortunately, wrote Portia cheerfully, it had been a hideous vase and in any case the property of their landlord.

    Richard looked weakly at Delphie. “I presume Sir Chauncey will reimburse the landlord for the vase”

    “Mm,” she said, biting her lip. “Go on.”

    Richard read over Lady Winnafree’s account, which scarcely differed from Henry’s to her sister, of young M. Jean-Louis P. de la R.’s misguided offer, with raised eyebrows. “Edifying.”

    “Ye-es... Well, she does admit he appeared struck by Pansy from the first, even before he knew about her fortune.”

    The Colonel sniffed a little, but allowed: “That may have counted for something. And the third?”

    Delphie winced, and motioned him to continue.

   …  “My God,” said the Colonel limply, laying down the letter. “The Comte de la Marre?”

    “I’ve never heard of him,” she admitted.

    “It’s one of the oldest titles in France!”

    “Yes, and he must be one of the oldest ‘catches’!” said Delphie crossly.

    Richard swallowed a smile. “Darling, I think he must be my own age, or very close to it. I met him once, when I was an humble lieutenant, before I transferred. He was already a major—you may say that counts for very little: the Royalist army considered the possession of a title as reason for instant preferment—but I was very much struck by him. A quiet and sensible man, I thought, and very capable.”

    “Then it is all the more extraordinary that he should have fallen for Pansy!” said Delphie strongly.

    “The white dress Lady Winnafree describes does sound exquisite,” murmured her husband.

    “Um—yes,” she admitted feebly.

    “She is very pretty, you know. Lady Winnafree writes she has fined down a little: I think that would suit her. And—er—if ‘short ladies have ever been to his taste’?” he said on an apologetic note.

    Delphie glared at him.

    “Well, it is not my phrase!” he said with a little laugh. “No, don’t eat me, my love! It does appear that the poor fellow was very much struck by Pansy’s unique quality.”

    “Yes. But I am persuaded he is older than you. His son would have been far more suitable. Not that I want Pansy to marry a Frenchman and live in France!” she added hurriedly.

    “No.” Richard Amory was aware, though she had expressed many times the opinion that it was fortunate that Noël had discovered he and Pansy should not suit, that Delphie had a hankering to see her sister married to his nephew and settled in southern England. He did not refer to this, but said on a resigned note: “Well, let’s see what she says of ’em.”

    Delphie held out Pansy’s letter, saying in a strange tone: “Lady Winnafree says she treated the Comte very kindly.”

    “Yes, well, that is Lady Winnafree’s notion of sparing our feelings!”

    Delphie said nothing, just watched while he read. He chuckled over Pansy’s dispatching of M. Lamartine, and raised his eyebrows once or twice over the description of young M. Plouvier de la Reysne’s misguided offer, but conceded that Pansy had behaved just as she ought in the latter case and if Monsieur had conceived she had insulted his French honour with a slighting reference to Wellington’s and the Prussians’ getting back his family’s château for them it was no more than the fortune-hunting little fellow deserved. Then he turned to the last section, perceiving with some surprise, for procrastination or the shirking of an unpleasant task was most unlike Pansy, that she had put off writing it until the following day.

Le lendemain.

    My courage failed me, alas, when it came to recounting this next, so I put the letter aside. But I shall not put off writing any longer.

    I’m afraid the third proposal was rather more serious—not that I wish you to take it seriously, Delphie, so please do not, for much though I admire him, I can never reciprocate his feelings. He is an older gentleman. Oh, dear: this very hard to put in a way which will not give you the impression that I am boasting of a conquest. So I will simply say that I wish very much I could reciprocate his flattering feelings.

    I think I had best just out with it, I seem to be going round in circles. He is the Comte de la Marre. Richard will have heard of him, I am sure. If I say he is très bien né, that is so far from being an exaggeration as to be a positive understatement. Sir Chauncey and Lady Winnafree have known him slightly for many years, and he is a close friend of kind M. et Mme Plouvier de la Reysne. He is a widower, his oldest son being about the same age, I would suppose, as Cousin Ludo, but sadly, without either his energy or charm. M. le Comte is very much otherwise. Now I sound as if I’m boasting again. Well, I shall just say that if I had dreamed he could begin to cherish serious intentions towards a silly, insignificant and, finalement, heartless young woman like myself, I would never have accepted his kind invitations to drive out. We had several pleasant drives to the Bois, of course always an open carriage, with grooms and footmen in attendance. And several times the young Vicomte rode alongside. Mostly we talked of the late wars, and of M. de la Marre’s experiences campaigning: he fought with the Chouans at one stage, quite thrilling, though to hear him tell it, it was nothing at all.

    I am maundering on, Delphie. I’m sorry. Suffice it to say that his approach to me was not in the least impertinent and, in fact, he solicited Sir Chauncey’s permission to speak to me, saying that he knew it was too precipitate, and he would not have spoken had we not been about to depart Paris. Dear Sir Chauncey did not give him very much reason to hope, but allowed me, after telling me in the kindest way of his approach, to speak to him myself. Of course I was in a tremble, for I knew I must refuse him. He spoke so much like a man of both sense and feeling that I was near tears. And was so humble over the difference in age between the two of us, which I swear would not weigh for an instant with me if I could but return his regard. For he is all that is gallant and brave. I could not but think, if all the French aristocracy had had half the goodness of character of M. le Comte de la Marre there would have been no need of a revolution. Added to which, he is so truly attractive, though I would not call him conventionally handsome. Henry says that one would say he was of medium height. Very slim, and with a very manly air. Does that sound puerile? I fear it does, but I do not know how else to put it.

    I could see he truly cared and was very shaken by my refusal. It was dreadful, Delphie. He assured me that I had not unwittingly given him cause to hope, when I expressed my apologies for having done so; but I fear he was merely being kind, and that I had done so. Unintentional though it was on my part, I felt quite criminal. For failure to think of the other person’s possible feelings and reactions is nigh as blameworthy as deliberately misleading them, is it not? Though the crimes may not be comparable, the result is most certainly as unhappy. I shall be very, very careful in the future. It has been a horrid lesson for me. I can only wish, very bitterly, that I wish it had not had to be at the expense of the feelings of a truly honourable gentleman.

    The Colonel looked limply at his wife. “This is extraordinary, indeed.”

    “Do not dare to mock!” she cried, with tears in her eyes.

    “I should not dream of mocking, my love. It’s just... It’s so different from her treatment of Noël. She is growing up, at last.”

    Delphie nodded, smiling tremulously.

    “Poor damned André de la Marre,” said the Colonel slowly, re-reading the passage, frowning.

    “Yes. –Is that his name?”

    “Mm? Oh: yes.”

    “Do you believe she did not intentionally lead him on, Richard?”

    “Yes. Well, a pretty young girl with a carefree manner is often not aware when she is encouraging a gentleman more than she means to, my love: I would not refine too much on it, if I were you. And I would not absolutely guarantee,” he said with a lurking twinkle, “that in spite of her best intentions, it will not happen again.”

    “Pansy is not one to give her word and then go back on it!” cried Professor Ogilvie’s elder daughter indignantly.

    “No, no, of course not. It’s just that it’s male human nature to find a pretty, lively young thing like Pansy well-nigh irresistible. A point which we can’t expect Pansy herself fully to grasp. It’s not a matter of intentions, or even intelligence!” he added hastily.

    “Oh,” said Delphie slowly. “No; I see.”

    “Mm. But I’m very glad indeed to see her take such a responsible attitude.”

    “Yes,” said Delphie with a sigh of relief. “Did you read to the end, Richard?”

    “Mm? Oh: no. Don’t tell me there was another!”

    “No. But I think,” said Delphie with a smile, “that it is another indication that—well, that she has got over her sulks at last, and is truly beginning to develop into a sensible, caring young woman. You remember what Jane Carey wrote in her last?”

    “Uh…”

    “About Horatio!” said Delphie with a gurgle.

    “Oh!” The Colonel finished the letter, smiling.

    I have a lowering feeling the next town we reach may be Arles, and Henry will drag me on a tour of all the architecture in it. I would not say so to her for anything, but architecture, in especial very old architecture, has a deleterious effect on both my disposition and my feet. Arles and environs promise to have very old architecture indeed. Roman. Ugh. Old and stony. I must finish, but might I just beg a favour of you? I have written to Ratia asking after Horatio, but as you know reading is not her best accomplishment, and tho’ I writ very large and used only short words, l fear she may find it hard to decipher. If it would not be too much of a bother, could you write to Lady Jane asking whether my letter arrived and whether Horatio is going on all right? I miss him. And pray ask Lady J. to assure Ratia that I still mean to have her with me the moment I am of age and in my own house.

    Everyone sends best love to you and Richard and Lizzie, and you are all to keep entirely well, without even a summer cold between you, until we come home again. And pray remind Lizzie, gooseberries or green fruits of any kind will not do for Little Nole.

Yours, in anticipated Historical agony,

Pansy

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