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bottom waistcoat button.
    Phryne slept the night without dreams and woke in the early morning, thinking about Paris in a warm, sleepy trance. What was it she didn’t want to remember? Her time in Paris had been fascinating. She had mixed with artists and poets, had been to one of Miss Stein’s Sunday Afternoons, eaten bread and cheese and drunk vin so absolutely ordinaire that it stained the teeth and eroded the palate; vin du table made of real table . . . and all because Daddy had sent a fierce telegram ordering her to stay at the Magnifique until he could send someone to get her and escort her home in time for the County Ball. And Phryne wasn’t going to go to that ball . . .
    No. She was not going to think about what happened next. She dragged herself brutally awake, took a punitive shower and dressed soberly.
    Lin Chung looked up from his toast, marmalade and coffee and stood as she came into the room. Paler than the moon, with the Manchu red mouth, the silky black hair and those strange, disturbing green eyes.
    ‘Silver Lady,’ he said gravely, taking her hand.
    ‘Lin dear,’ she said, sitting down firmly and taking up a napkin and a cup of coffee in that order. Lin Chung looked as immaculate as ever; a smooth, cultivated young man, of surpassing amatory skill and extensive education. He was wearing a silk suit which might have been woven in China but was definitely cut in Savile Row, and a four in hand tie with a pearl pin. Phryne found him altogether a charming sight for so early in the morning.
    ‘Today I must go to Station Pier to meet a person,’ he said. ‘Would it please you to come with me?’
    ‘If you don’t mind a detour or three,’ said Phryne. ‘Who are you meeting?’
    ‘My new wife,’ said Lin smoothly.
    Mr Butler, laying some poached eggs in the bain-marie, jerked a little and just saved his egg as it tried to leap off the spoon. Miss Fisher, however, did not turn a hair.
    ‘Would it be suitable for me to be there?’ asked Phryne. She was closer to Chinese culture than most Australians, but she was still unsure about the finer points—for instance, whether it was proper for a young man to take his mistress to greet his new wife as she got off the ship.
    ‘Perfectly,’ said Lin.
    ‘But it would not be suitable to take the poor girl on trips to offices and police stations, which is where I am going, and then to visit a racing man who is probably, as Dot so accurately puts it, a crook. The young woman will want to find a wash and a meal and a place to lie down until the ground stops moving. I know those passenger ships. A long voyage. Has she come from China?’
    ‘Indirectly. She has been staying with my cousins in Hong Kong until we could get the necessary permits. Australia does not want to be overrun with the heathen Chinee and it takes time to get permission for a young woman to travel here. I must marry her within three months or she will be deported.’
    ‘Who is she?’
    ‘Her name is Camellia. She is not very familiar with western ways and speaks little English. The cousins funded her voyage from the Four Counties and I understand it was more like an escape. Her family has traditionally been allied with mine.’
    ‘How old is she?’
    ‘Seventeen,’ said Lin Chung evenly, taking more marmalade.
    ‘Ah,’ said Phryne. ‘And she understands our . . . arrangement?’
    ‘Yes. I made sure of that.’
    ‘Good. No, I don’t think I should come with you. She will be afraid and she doesn’t need a strange face—I mean a strange occidental face—to disconcert her further. I’m sure that you will introduce us in due course.’
    Phryne found that she had lost her appetite. She gulped her coffee and a shaken Mr Butler refilled her cup. He was proud of the fact that he did not spill a drop. Drat, he was thinking. I liked this one. He was charming and conversable and Miss Fisher really liked him, and now Mr Butler would have to laboriously train the next lover in the ways of