So it happened that on the sixteenth of December, Mrs. Swaffham and Jane wore dressing for Whitehall. Mrs. Swaffham was nervous and irritable; nervous, because she feared her gown was not as handsome as it ought to be; irritable, because she felt that circumstances were going to control her behaviour, whether she approved or not. Jane was unable to encourage or cheer her mother; she was herself the most unhappy maiden in London that day. She was white as the satin robe that clothed her, and her eyes held in their depths the shadow of that fear and grief which filled her heart. And though her mother was sorry for her distress, she was vexed that her girl could not better hide her trouble. "I hate to be pitied, Jane," she said, "and above all by ’her Highness.’ And those Cromwell girls, they too will be crying ’Oh dear me!’ and ’Poor Jane!’ and you will be a sweet sadness to spice their own glory and happiness. Keep a brave heart, my girl. Something may happen any hour." Jane did not answer. She could not talk; she needed all her strength to live. For eighteen days she had been forced to accept the fact that Cluny was at least eighteen days behind all probable and improbable delays. She had not received a line from him since he left Paris; no one had. He had apparently vanished as completely as a stone dropped into mid-ocean. She had been often at Jevery House, and during two of her visits had managed to see Sir Thomas and ask "if he had any intelligence from Lord Neville?" On her first inquiry he answered her anxiously; on his second his reply showed some anger. "He offered voluntarily to take charge of Lady Jevery’s jewels and to collect my money at The Hague; and unless he was certain of his ability to do these things safely, he ought not to have sought the charge." And with these words there entered into Jane’s heart a suspicion that hurt her like a sword-thrust. She found herself saying continually, "It is impossible! impossible! Oh, my God, where is he?"