'The skirt must be short, lest it get caught in the blades of my skates – you see?' Eliza said, and did a little pirouette. Before she'd gotten entirely turned around, a groaning and cracking noise came from the center of the French delegation as a spindly middle-aged diplomat collapsed dizzily to the ground. The men to either side of him crouched down as if to render assistance, but were straightened up by a brisk idiom from d'Avaux. 'Once we begin to make exceptions for those who fall – or who pretend to – the whole delegation will go down like ninepins,' d'Avaux explained, addressing the remark to Eliza, but intending it for his entourage. The fallen man contracted to a fœtal position on the pavement; a couple of sword-wearing Dutchmen scurried in with a blanket. Meanwhile a wench came down out of a side-street bearing a large tray, and walked past the French delegation, letting them smell the flip-aroma, and feel the steam, from eight tankards – which she took direct to the Englishmen.