He glanced over his clothes.
“Ah!” he gave a sudden smile, “merely the fashion of Paris, Miss Delia—I have escaped detection—so what matters it?”
“Nothing,” she assented. “Only you look more like one of the Prince’s courtiers, Mr. Wedderburn, than the King’s friends, who usually go roughly clad.”
He gave her another quick look.
“See my commission, madam—”
“Oh, no—” she protested. “Show it to Mr. Caryl—”
“Is he coming here—soon?”
“Yes—to meet you, Mr. Wedderburn.”
She dropped into silence after that; he put his papers back and stared at the brown tiles, suddenly he looked at her:
“How loud the bells sound,” he said, “it is Westminster is it not?”