He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. “Nigel is like all men,” Lady Lescelles continued. She lit the cigarette with a tiny Kelly green drugstore lighter. They then took off their boots, and crept stealthily up stairs, treading upon the point of their toes so cautiously, that not a board creaked beneath their weight. ‘Poor Mary had no idea about the elopement Nicholas had undertaken,’ she told Gerald. Silken open robes over full tiffany petticoats in a contrasting colour were, Lucy assured him, of the very latest Parisian design, cut by the finest French tailors. “But your sister,” he said. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one.
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