She leaned over and kissed his cheek innocently. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. Here was not the individual against whom she had been warned. “Don’t think that I have been playing the spy upon you,” he continued. He has had brain fever since, and, as you say, I am more like what you were then than you yourself are now. I'm a graybeard, an old bachelor; so I am accorded certain privileges.
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