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Chapter Two ‘Our French friends are beginning to form quite a little coterie,’ remarked Gerald, covertly studying the group gathered in an alcove at the other side of Lady Bicknacre’s ballroom. He saw three people: a young man at the piano, an elderly man smoking in a corner, and a young woman reclining in a chair, her eyes closed. Thanks. Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed. But I can't submit to hear the wellearned reputation of my friend termed an 'infamous notoriety. The Northern Ocean keeps a secret better than the Thames, Sir Rowland. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him. These thoughts, however, came to a broken end.
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