Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Her pa was only the smithy. The music throbbed into the warnings that preceded the king’s irruption. “There is something to be said for the lady-like theory after all,” she admitted. Breakfast, too, was an impossible occasion. How is she?” “My sister is quite well, thank you,” she answered. She awoke and found herself home amid a pile of three bodies, one of which she recognized as a former denizen of the household. ‘All these soldiers,’ she complained, adding with a sweep of one arm at the major’s dress, ‘all of them in red as you.
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