Of course Nicholas was bound to give her a French name. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. It slid off flimsily. I'm burning to get to work.
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