Because his gaiety was infectious, Honora realised that there was no point in arguing with him.

It was easier to laugh as he did and hope that the right cards would turn up the next time he played.

But, when he was killed in the hunting field during, as one of his friends had said, one of the best runs they had had that Season, neither his cards nor horses had shown a win for some time.

Honora had therefore been very conscious of the large amount of debts that her uncle had to pay on her father’s behalf and her Aunt Aline had made sure she did not forget it.

“I hope you are grateful,” she had said sharply when she informed Honora that she was to go to Florence.

“Thank you very much, Aunt Aline,” Honora murmured.

“It is costing your uncle a great deal of money to have you educated in the smartest and naturally the most expensive Finishing School in Europe. I suppose you know what that word entails?”

Because Honora was well read, for her mother had seen to that, she was aware that girls from aristocratic families in France and Italy had for generations been sent to what were now called ‘Finishing Schools”.

Not only did the pupils have academic lessons but it was also made sure that they were proficient in the art of being a successful woman before they entered the Social world.

This meant that the curriculum included painting, learning French, German and Italian, playing the pianoforte, riding and most important of all, dancing.

As was traditional, nuns ran the school, but the majority of the teachers came in from the City and were exceptionally gifted.

Once Honora got over being homesick and the loss of her father, her lessons filled her whole life and she enjoyed the classes, realising that she was improving her brain with everything she was taught.

It was her father who had said to her on more than one occasion,

“For Heaven’s sake, make sure, dearest, you have something to talk about besides yourself. A pretty face is a good introduction, but a man quickly grows bored with lips, however irresistible, that can only mouth platitudes.”

Honora had laughed as he had meant her to do, but at the same time she knew that he was speaking seriously.

After her mother had died there were a number of beautiful women anxious to console her father and she had studied them with interest.

She was not, which was unusual, jealous of them, as many young girls were jealous, because she knew she held an unassailable position in his heart that no one else could touch.

“Hurry and grow up, Poppet,” her father had said, “and then we can have a great deal of fun together. But let me tell you, I shall be a very strict chaperon! I have no intention of allowing you to be pursued by the wrong sort of man.”

“What is the wrong sort of man, Papa?”