" "A secret!" exclaimed Trenchard. And it’s no good pretending there is one when there isn’t. But, when? When do they go?’ ‘Today, miss. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. 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. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver.
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