Lady Lavinia was at first charmed to be there again; delighted with the house, and transported over the excellencies of the new French milliner she had discovered.
But the milliner's bills proved monstrous, and the drawing-room of her house not large enough for the routs she contemplated giving. The air was too relaxing for her, and she was subject to constant attacks of the vapours that were as distressing to her household as they were to herself. The late hours made her head ache as it never ached in London, and the damp gave her a cold. Furthermore, the advent of an attractive and exceedingly wealthy little widow caused her many a bitter hour, to the considerable detriment of her good-temper.
She was lying on a couch in her white and gilt drawing room one afternoon—alas! the craze for French furniture was o'er-smelling-bottle in hand and a bona fide ache in her head, when the door opened and Tracy walked into the room.
"Good heavens!" she said faintly, and uncorked her salts.
It was his Grace's first appearance since she had come to Bath, and the fact that he had politely declined an invitation that she had sent to him still rankled in her mind. He bowed over the limp hand that she extended, and looked her up and down.
"I regret to find you thus indisposed, my dear sister," he said smoothly.
"'Tis nought. Only one of my stupid headaches. I am never well here, and this house is stuffy," she answered fretfully.
"You should take the waters," he said, scrutinising, through his eyeglass, the chair to which she had waved him. "It has an unstable appearance, my dear; I believe I prefer the couch." He moved to a smaller sofa and sat down.
"Pray, how long have you been in Bath?" she demanded.
"I arrived last Tuesday week."