She wore few rings indeed, but they were such rings as he had never seen before he had come as a guest to Enton.

And there were thousands like her.

A momentary flash of thought carried him back to the days of the French Revolution.

There was a print hanging in his room of a girl as fair and as proud as this one, surrounded by a fierce rabble mad with hunger and the pent-up rage of generations, tearing the jewels from her fingers, tearing even, he thought, the trimming from her gown.
"You do not answer me, Mr.Brooks," she reminded him.
He recovered himself with a start.
"I beg your pardon, Lady Sybil.

Your question set me thinking.