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. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth.
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