It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. And when they got to Covent Garden Ramage secured one of the little upper boxes, and they came into it as the overture began. She stared. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. ’ ‘Don’t call me by name,’ she snapped. “I thought you weren’t getting along so well with your mother these days. Courtlaw, is it not,” she remarked, with lifted eyebrows. But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition. E below. She had dreaded the beginning of this hour.
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