The walls were cluttered with paintings by Hogarth, Gainsborough, Reynolds, Romney, and Zoffany. Cosway miniatures clustered the Adam brothers' finely crafted tables, and candlelight reflected handsomely from the glassware and silver plate scattered throughout the room. The men clustered on one side of the parlor, each imbibing their after dinner cordials. The ladies grouped on the other, each perched on the edge of her chair like a colorful bird. Indeed, they resembled a lot of plumage fowls, what with ostrich feathers sprouting from the little hats they wore fixed at an angle to their heads so as not to hide their intricate coiffures—most being wigs, of course, which were currently the rage in Paris. Clayton noted that the countess Fanshawe's hairpiece had begun to slide precariously onto her brow. Another half hour and it would tumble right into her ample lap. Miracle had said little throughout dinner. She had smiled, of course. Nodded. Gracefully accepted the overly eager guests' congratulations and good wishes.
