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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. The last time Pottiswick had called out the militia on suspicion of intruders in Remenham House, a large rodent had been all the spoil. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. For all that, it is folly. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs.
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