No matter how fast he dressed, he’d be too late to stop his sons from showing Isabel her fan or revealing she was the subject of his private dreams. Peter pulled on his comfortable black clothes, grabbed the beribboned cane and hobbled as quickly down to his waiting carriage. The vehicle crawled like an arthritic dog through the morning traffic, as the consequences of his sons’ helpfulness loomed larger with every turn of the wheel. At last, the carriage steps were lowered. Peter climbed down to knock on the door himself. After two firm raps with the knocker, Peter waited in agony for the door to open. Just as he was lifting his hand to knock again, the door slowly opened. On seeing Peter, the footman smiled in amusement. “May Lord?” “Is Mademoiselle receiving…?” “Mademoiselle iz not here…May Lord.” “When is she ex-ex-expect…” “Jamais!” “What?” shouted Peter. “What do you mean never?” “Mademoiselle, elle a quitter le nid. How do you say; she haz left the nest.”
