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“It came from Persia, it is only a trifle,” said Rowton. “I thought of you when I put it away; let me wrap it round you; now come down stairs.”

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The next day, true to his word, Rowton took Nancy to the shops. They went to the Bon Marché, and to many other places where finery the most fascinating, dresses the most bizarre, articles of toilet the most chic in the world, were to be found. Rowton consulted one of the shopwomen whose taste was supposed to be absolute: she brought out one costume after another and fitted them on Nancy, while her husband looked on and criticised and admired. Morning dresses, afternoon dresses, tea gowns, evening dresses, were bought in variety and abundance. With a mere nod of his head Rowton would signify to the attendant that such a thing was to be sent to Mrs. Rowton to the Grand Hotel; he never even enquired the price.

“You want shoes and dainty stockings and handkerchiefs and ribbons, and feathers and flowers,” he said, just laying his hand for an instant on Nancy’s shoulder. “Oh, I know how women ought to be dressed.”