Jane thought for exactly thirty seconds, weighing the shorthand typing
against Paris and the Majestic and Life. Life had it, as usual.

'Right-o, daddy. I'll come along. When do we go over?'

That afternoon Jane gave notice to her department, and in the middle of
January Lord Pinkerton and his bodyguard of secretaries and assistants
went to Paris.


4

That was Life. Trousseaux, concerts, jazzing, dinners, marble bathrooms,
notorious persons as thick as thieves in corridors and on the stairs,
dangers of Paris surging outside, disappointed journalists besieging
proud politicians in vain, the Council of Four sitting in perfect harmony
behind thick curtains, Signor Orlando refusing to play, but finding they
went on playing without him and coming back, Jugo-Slavs walking about
under the aegis of Mr. Wickham Steed, smiling sweetly and triumphantly at
the Italians, going to the theatre and coming out because the jokes
seemed to them dubious, Sir George Riddell and Mr. G.H. Mair desperately
controlling the press, Lord Pinkerton flying to and fro, across the
Channel and back again, while his bodyguard remained in Paris. There also
flew to and fro Oliver Hobart, the editor of the _Daily Haste_. He would
drop in on Jane, sitting in her father's outer office, card-indexing,
opening and entering letters, and what not.

'Good-morning, Miss Potter. Lord Pinkerton in the office this morning?'

'He's in the building somewhere. Talking to Sir George, I think.... Did