My foster mother, Sheila, insists that I go to St. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage. Twenty guineas, mind. ‘You cannot be always with me. We’ve brought a carriage to take you back to London, and I’ve settled with Trodger, who has just given me a coherent account of the affair. ‘Least of all, one who takes advantage of another’s misfortune. ‘And that Suzanne, the sister of my cousin the vicomte, must choose between Monsieur Charvill and her brother. He wanted to become a millionaire. The carte de jour was before Monsieur. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent.
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