Then came a fresh flourishing of fans, varied by the occasional rising and courtesying of one of the ladies, as she recognized an acquaintance in the fashionable crowd. Did these women really believe themselves in the special presence of God? thought Celia. Surely they never could! There was one point of the service at which all their remarks were hushed, their fans still, and their attention concentrated. This was during the singing. Celia found that no member of the congregation thought of joining the psalmody, which was left to a choir located in the gallery. At the close of each chant, audible comments were whispered round. "How exceeding sweet!" "What a divine voice she hath!" "Beautiful, that E-la!" And when the prayers followed, the snuff-boxes and fans began figuring again. On the whole, Celia was glad when this service was over. Even Dr. Braithwaite was better than this. And then she thought of her friends at Ashcliffe, and how they would be rumbling home in the old family-coach, as she stepped in her loneliness into the Consul's splendid carriage. Did they miss her, she wondered, and were they thinking of her then, while her heart was dwelling sadly and longingly upon them? She doubted not that they did both. "_Et bien?_" said Lady Ingram, interrogatively, when she met Celia after dinner. "Did you like your great preacher?" "Not at all, Madam." "Not at all? Then I wonder why you went. You look disappointed, _ma belle_. You must not look disappointed--It gives awkward lines to the face. Here--take some of this cake to console you; it is particularly good." Celia took the cake, but not the consolation. "At eleven o'clock on Tuesday, my child, we depart for Paris. Do not give yourself any trouble. Thérèse will do all your packing. Only you must not walk in Paris, until you have some clothes fit to be seen. I will order stuffs sent in at once when we arrive, and set the women to work for you." "Do you know, Madam, if you please"--Celia hesitated, and seemed a little uncomfortable. "Go on, child," said Lady Ingram. "Never stop in the middle of a sentence, unless you choose to affect the pretty-innocence style. Well?" "Do you know, Madam, whether there be any Protestant service in Paris?" "I imagine there is a Huguenot _prêche_ somewhere--or was one. I am not sure if I heard not something about His Majesty having stopped them. Do not put your Protestantism too much forward there--the Court do not like it." "I have nothing to do with the Court, Madam," said Celia, with sudden firmness; "and I am a Protestant, and I cannot disguise my religion." "Oh dear! your Protestant consciences!" murmured Lady Ingram. "But you have to do with the Court, my friend; it is to the Court that I am taking you. Do you suppose that I live in the atmosphere of a recluse? When I am an old woman of eighty, _ma chère_, very likely I shall repair to a convent to make my salvation; but not just now, if you please."