England at that time was deeply concerned with Indian affairs; and, in spite of the lively sympathy inspired by the grievous situation of the Royal Family at the Tuileries, she could not dream of departing, at any rate just then, from an attitude of benevolent neutrality. In her manor-house of Ketteringham, where she spent the winter of 1791-92, Lady Atkyns was not forgetful of her French friends. The _Gazette_ brought her week by week news of the events in Paris, of the troubles in the provinces, of the deliberations of the National Assembly. But what she looked for first of all was intelligence about the inhabitants of the Tuileries, whose agitated and anguished lives she anxiously followed. Separation redoubled her sympathetic adoration of the lady whom she had seen and worshipped at Versailles. Thus we can imagine what her grief must have been on hearing the details of that 20th of June--the invaded palace, the interminable line of the people defiling before the King, the attitude of Marie-Antoinette, protecting her son against the ferocious curiosity of the petitioners, and surrounded only by a few faithful allies who made a rampart for her with their bodies. Lady Atkyns’ heart had failed her as she read of all this. The day of the Tenth of August, the massacre of the Swiss Guards, the flight of the King and Queen, their transfer to the Temple Prison, and incarceration there--these things redoubled her anguish. She went frequently to London for information, and returned, sad and anxious, to her dear Norfolk home, made miserable by her impotence to do anything that might save the Queen. With her great love for the Royalist cause, she naturally associated herself warmly with the benevolent efforts of English society to help the _émigrés_. She knew many of the names, and when she heard talk of D’Harcourts, Beauvaus, Veracs, Fitz-Jameses, Mortemarts, all the life at Versailles must have come back to her--the Queen’s “set,” the receptions, the festivities.