“It is, how you say, all the crack,” said Alice. “But it is useless asking me for mon oncle’s direction since I do not know. I can furnish you, however, with the name and address of my man of business, Monsieur Bower. He will assure you I have sole control of my fortune.”

Miss Snapper thought rapidly and decided a strategic retreat was best. She would catch young Alice when she was in a more vulnerable mood.

Alice heard the closing of the door and sighed with relief. She was sure her small stock of courage had been about to run out. She could not believe she had already been so brave. But she was to drive out with the handsomest man in London. She would be the envy of the ladies of the ton and young Alice was human enough to relish that idea.

At precisely five o’clock, she descended the stairs, wearing a sprigged muslin gown with small puffed sleeves and deep flounces at the hem. Her long black hair had been cut à la victime and the saucy crop made her face seem more piquant and her eyes larger and brighter.

Seemingly oblivious to Miss Snapper’s disapproving silence, she tied a chip straw bonnet on her head and picked up a lacy parasol as Lord Harold Webb’s high-perch phaeton drew up outside the door.

Hyde Park at the fashionable hour was a wonderful spectacle. Glossy horses, silks and laces, taffeta and feathers, uniforms and quizzing glasses and curving top hats. The warm sun blazed down on the high gloss of the carriages, on the spun glass wigs of the coachmen, on the rich color and embroidery of hammer cloths. Clouds of dust sailed up into the summer air making the whole moving, shifting scene seem unreal, as if the whole panorama were being viewed through gauze.

Webb’s voice was like music in Alice’s ears. He told her what should be worn in society and what should not be worn. He told her that Mr. Brummell, that famous leader of fashion, was nothing more than a popinjay. That the Prince Regent was a disgrace to the country and his extravagances were shocking, and that he, Harold Webb, had told his Royal Highness just that.

“Fact!” he declared, under Alice’s awed stare. “Walked right up to him at Carlton House t’other day and I said, ‘Prinny,’ I said, ‘You’re a disgrace.’”

“Weren’t you afraid?” breathed Alice.

“Pooh!” he said, deftly edging his phaeton through the press. “A Webb is never afraid.”

A shadow crossed Alice’s little face. “Not even of ghosts?” she asked in a low voice.

“No,” he said stoutly. “And Harold Webb can tell you why, for Harold Webb has seen one! Fact! With these here eyes.”

“Please tell me,” said Alice urgently. Oh, the relief of finding she was not alone with her phantoms!