"Shhh, shhh, shhh, we'll get told off," she whispered.
"And don't turn your back, don't turn your back."
I was just looking at David Hockney's 2018 celebration of Queen Elizabeth's reign, a stained glass depiction of a Yorkshire country scene in dazzling colours, and beyond, 30 metres up, to the vaulted roof of a place of worship preparing for another chapter in its 1100-year history.
There was nothing to worry about, with officials inside Westminster Abbey - where her funeral will held on Monday - happily chatting with those of us who'd come for the last evensong before doors closed ahead of the late monarch's coffin arriving for four days of public viewing.
But while she was the most immaculately dressed, this older woman - who wore on her lapel a pin of intertwined UK, US and Canadian flags, but didn't want to say why - was the most worried among our group of mostly tourists slowly making our way to The Quire.
As we reached the Victorian Gothic-style stalls used by the 22 choirboys, various clergy and audience - us - for the church's daily services, a clergyman approached the woman.
"Hello Baroness," he said warmly.
"Your seat is here," he added, pointing to the head of the front row.
At her side, I wondered if I, too, might be directed to a place of importance.
The clergyman looked at me, and a woman from Wimbledon on my other side.
"You can go," he paused, before pointing to the back row: "Up there."
"Numbers 18 and 19."
The seat didn't matter.
As the sound of prepubescent boys singing psalms and canticles filled the Abbey, spliced with sombre readings from the Book of Common Prayer, my mind wandered to the ceremony planned in a week's time.
I wasn't alone.
As we left following the 45-minute service, variations of "this is where the funeral will be" drifted among the group.
Some paused at the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior, where the Queen - masked and alone - laid a bouquet of orchids and myrtle in 2020 to mark a century since the burial of an unknown British armed services member.
Others gathered In the nave, where a vibrant photo of the 70-year head of state sat next to a bunch of hydrangeas which had lost their colour.
Tubs of tea light candles had been placed in front of us, with staff promising - despite preparing for perhaps the biggest Royal-related service in their lifetimes - all would be left to burn out before being removed.
On my left, two women stood in front of the rows of flickering candles, and leaned into each other.