"Breathe at this phial," said Winifred. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. But he can't have his eyes always about him, or he'd have been with us this morning at the Mint, eh, Mr. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. 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. Pull yourself together, Annabel! I must have the truth.
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