” The conversation hung for a moment. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. “No, he wouldn’t come here of all places—just now. He seemed to be labouring under some great excitement. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. There was a huge desk of heavily carved ebony at one end, and at the centre, a couple of straight-backed chairs stood before a great fireplace at the outer wall, flanked by two bookshelves with casement windows above. ” Brendon reappeared, followed by a tall thin man with a stubbly brown moustache and restless grey eyes. If only we work together.
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