Thirteen years had passed over the heads of this roving couple, and had treated them with callous cruelty. Time had not brought a suitor to the feet of Miss Lydia, and on the other hand he had robbed her of her lively spirits, and a certain amount of colour and hair. Lydia was a discontented, embittered woman who had missed her way in life, and was nearing the lamentable frontier of forty. She had a good figure, an acid tongue (but could make herself agreeable), and a positive genius for dress. Lydia and her mother were sincerely devoted to one another. Proud, poor, ambitious, they contrived to make a brave show on an income that would seem incredibly small in proportion to their pretensions, and manner of living. Their appearance and dress were ultra-fashionable, they proclaimed to envious listeners, that they had discovered a secret treasure of a ‘little’ dressmaker--but the truth was, their smart gowns were second, and even third hand--and as a rule, their choice of hotels and acquaintances were fastidious and select. Lydia announced that they were obliged to live abroad on account of her mother’s health; whilst the supposed invalid exerted her failing strength in order to get her dear girl settled. She frequented Alpine resorts, famous for winter sports, popular cures, or the Riviera, and, in short, any hunting-ground favoured by the eligible British bachelor. In order to effect these costly adventures, the Plassys were at times obliged to exercise the most rigid economies. They haunted cheap _pensions_, where they shared a room for eight francs a day--food and light, _tout compris_. Here they made their own tea with an Etna, here they washed their handkerchiefs and stockings, here they wore out their old clothes, and, so to speak, girded themselves for their next encounter with Fortune. The ladies had come to the too-expensive Paradis, in pursuit of a very distant connection, a valetudinarian old bachelor of enormous wealth and many whims and fancies--in the hope, that Lydia might prove to be one of them!