She had worn a new myrtle-green, black-braided, fur-trimmed cloth pelisse and hat to match, as she also remembered, bought the day before at a fascinating shop in the Rue Castiglione.

Agreeably conscious her clothes were not only very much "the right thing" but decidedly becoming, she had gone, with him, to pay a visit of ceremony at the convent school--near the Church of St.Germain-les-Pres--where, as a little girl of six, fresh from India and the high dignities of the Bhutpur Sultan-i-bagh, she had been deposited by her father's old friend, Mrs.John Pereira, who had brought her and Sarah Watson, her nurse, back to Europe.
The sojourn at the convent--once the surprise of translation from East to West, from reigning princess to little scholar was surmounted--proved fertile in gentle memories.

The visit of to-day, not only revived these memories, but added to their number.

For it passed off charmingly.
Carteret seemed by no means out of place among the nuns--well-bred and gracious women of hidden, consecrated lives.

They, indeed, appeared instinctively drawn to him and fluttered round him in the sweetest fashion imaginable; he, meanwhile, bearing himself towards them with an exquisite and simple courtesy beyond all praise.