Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. 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. Ever hear of the djinn in the bottle? Like enough. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ‘Sindlesham? But Gerald has gone out of town to visit that very person.
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