The lordly poet was at low-water mark. The careless writing was in keeping with his mood of savage discontent. On all sides doors were being slammed in his face. The previous scandals, gaily diverting as they were, had only served to increase his popularity. Now, under the impact of his wife's disclosures, he was brought suddenly to the realization that there was a limit to tolerance, however brilliant, however far-famed the offender might be. He tried defiance and openly flaunted his devotion to his half sister, but he soon saw, as did she, that this course if persisted in would involve them in a common ruin. For the moment there was no woman in his life, and it was this vacuum that had given Claire her opportunity.

But the liaison successfully started in the last days of autumn was now languishing. Byron, since the separation from his wife had been living in a smallish house in Piccadilly Terrace. He refused to bring Claire to it even as an occasional visitor, claiming that his every move was watched by spies of the Milbankes.