Four or five days before she was due in Bolton Street, her mindful Sophie, with unerring memory, wrote to her, declaring her readiness to do all and anything that the most diligent friendship could prompt.

Should she meet her dear Julie at the station in London?
Should she bring any special carriage?
Should she order any special dinner in Bolton Street?
She herself would of course come to Bolton Street, if not allowed to be present at the station.

It was still chilly in the evenings, and she would have fires lit.

Might she suggest a roast fowl and some bread sauce, and perhaps a sweetbread--and just one glass of champagne?
And might she share the banquet?
There was not a word in the note about the too obtrusive brother, either as to the offence committed by him, or the offence felt by him.
The little Franco-Polish woman was there in Bolton Street, of course--for Lady Ongar had not dared to refuse her.

A little, dry, bright woman she was, with quick eyes, and thin lips, and small nose, and mean forehead, and scanty hair drawn back quite tightly from her face and head; very dry, but still almost pretty with her quickness and her brightness.