I am five-and-thirty, and I have knocked about in the world and tasted the quality of life. But here the resemblance stopped. I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle. My destiny, I am afraid, is going to lead me into the ruts. You are to come home. Your reputation for hospitality would remain under a cloud though, for tea was distinctly mentioned. 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. .
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