Chéri smiled again, showing enthusiasm. She had made him, in fact, a small favour, but he seemed to treat it like a grand and unexpected honour. “Do you always play like this?” It was an odd question, but it didn’t look bad on an odd person.

And then she immediately apologised. Chéri had learnt his own French hearing people shouting on the streets, taverns and back alleys and it was only his aptitude to imitation that prevented his speech to resemble a fishmonger dialect waved his hand in assurance, but failed to add words. Maybe a signed of his imperfect manners? However, he continued “I can see that. One cannot achieve such skills without lots of exercise. Do you play professionally?” Chéri had no idea most upper-class ladies had some music education but hardly ever played publicly. And if he did, he might think them all as proficient as Jane. He put his hands behind his back, assuming the pose of most gentlemen. His speech, even in French, was not especially refined, but his speaking voice was very beautiful.

In short: it was not too hard to clock him as not a born-and-raised gentleman, but not so easy to label him correctly.