She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. “I don’t think she will,” she said. The perfume was the only one she ever used. It was hard to associate her with the stories which he and all Paris had heard of “Alcide. ‘And I suppose I shall be obliged to endure another nonsensical tale about your husband. Now I’d like the rest of your story. The beautiful city that she had been awed by and even grown to love had been abandoned.
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