Frivolities

8

Frivolities

    “And a one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three!” chanted M. Desseaux breathlessly, whirling round the almost deserted ballroom of the town house with Miss Parker in his arms.

    “I shall never do it,” said Henry in a doomed voice to her cousin as they watched the demonstration.

    Dimity was not altogether sure that she herself could manage the waltz, either: and in especial not with a gentleman, though she might at a pinch perform creditably when it was only M. Desseaux. “Miss Worrington said you had a natural sense of rhythm,” she reminded her kindly.

    She had also said that Dimity could master algebra if she did but apply herself: Henry gave her an amazed glance but did not bother to reply.

    “It is my guess that they are not French at all!” hissed Fliss, pouting.

    “I know!” hissed Henry, trying not to laugh. “Their name is Bucket, and ‘Desseaux’ is Mr Bucket’s effort to get as close as possible to the name in French. Whilst still sounding appropriately aristocratic!”

    Dimity went into a muffled sniggering fit, her hand over her mouth.

    “I do not think it amusing,” said Fliss, pouting horribly.

    “I admire him: he has had a hard life,” said Henry, as the red-faced little dancing master whirled round with Alfreda. “His wife actually was French, you know: a lady of good family. But they cast her off when she married poor Mr Bucket. And then she died after their youngest child was born: Mlle Desseaux was telling me there are still five little ones at home to clothe and feed.”

    “Mamma would not like it, if she knew you were gossiping with the servants, Henry,” warned Fliss.

    “They are not servants, precisely. And in any case, whether your mamma approves or not, I shall continue to treat the whole of mankind as my fellows, regardless of the class into which they may be relegated by an accident of birth,” said Henry on a remarkably grim note.

    Fliss shrugged irritably. “Oh, have it your own way!”

    “There is no harm in M. and Mlle Desseaux, after all,” murmured Dimity.

    Fliss merely shrugged.

    “Et voilà!” panted M. Desseaux, beaming, ending up in front of the three damsels. “You regard how perfectly Miss Parker, she keeps to the rhythm, no? And you see how she follows me at the reverse? Come: it is now the turn of Mlle Felicity!” He bowed very low.

    Fliss permitted him to twirl her away, only saying loudly: “I wish you will not squeeze my hand so tight, M. Desseaux!”

    “She is in a terrible mood,” said Dimity in a lowered voice to Miss Parker.

    Alfreda sank gracefully down beside them. “It is but nerves, my dear. She will be better once the first visit to Almack’s has been accomplished.”

    Dimity was treading on the martyred M. Desseaux’s toes, Alfreda was turning for Mlle Desseaux, Henry had quietly produced a book and was buried in it, and Fliss was frankly sulking, when the door opened and a laughing voice said: “Oh, by Gad, it is too true: here they all are! Come along, Aden: you may prop up the wall and gloom at us à la Byron, if you wish, but I personally fully intend to dance!”

    And Sir Noël Amory, closely followed by Mr Wilfred Rowbotham and Captain Lord Rupert Narrowmine, came eagerly into the ballroom. Mr Tarlington entered last, with a very wry look on his face.

    “Oh, famous!” cried Fliss, jumping up and clapping her hands: “Now we may dance properly!”

    “Improperly, is it not?” muttered Henry, laying down her book with a resigned expression.

    Sir Noël came over to the piano and bowed over Miss Parker’s hand. “Delighted to see you, Miss Parker! I trust you will forgive this intrusion, but the butler let it out to Aden you were all in here, and—well,” he ended with his pleasant laugh, “a fellow could not resist, frankly!”

    Miss Parker was not immune to the easy charm which, like all the Amorys, Sir Noël possessed in abundance: she smiled, blushed a little and said: “Oh! Well— But does Lady Tarlington know of this, sir?”

    Mr Tarlington, who was in riding dress, strolled over to them with his hands in the pockets of his breeches. “No. Driven out,” he said laconically.

    Sir Noël bowed. “I am sure she would not be so cruel as to forbid it, though, ma’am! –Persuade her, Aden!” He bowed again and went eagerly over to greet the other young ladies.

    “Should you dislike it?” said Mr Tarlington abruptly to Miss Parker.

    Alfreda bit her lip. “I— Well, of course with M. Desseaux here... And yourself, Cousin... I suppose it would not be improper.”

    He shrugged. “I’ll get rid of ’em, if you prefer. Though Rupert, of course, is a relation: it cannot be said to be entirely ineligible, in his case. His mamma, Lady Blefford, is Mamma’s cousin, so presumably you and Henry are his relations as well as ours.”

    Alfreda swallowed. “Blefford, sir? I’m afraid I do not recall...”

    “The family name is Narrowmine. –Oh,” he said: “I must suppose Blefford not to have succeeded to the title at the time my aunt married him: he would have been Viscount Harpingdon, Cousin.”

    “Oh, why yes! Papa has spoken of Lady Harpingdon!” said Alfreda in some relief.

    “Good. Makes two gentlemen out of four that are related to you and your sister: is fifty percent enough, Cousin Alfreda?” he said with a not unkind twinkle in his eye.

    Alfreda laughed a little, blushed a little, and agreed: “Why, yes! I think it would not be ineligible! And M. Desseaux, I am sure, will supervise us all very properly.”

    “Bound to.”

    Alfreda hesitated. “But I think we had heard you do not dance, Mr Tarlington?”

    Mr Tarlington bowed in quite the grand manner. “To set your mind at rest on a question of propriety, I am prepared to do even that, Cousin Alfreda!”

    Alfreda blushed again but also laughed a little again, and was not displeased.

    M. Desseaux deciding happily that now they might waltz, Captain Lord Rupert Narrowmine bowed before Dimity, begging she would honour him, and apologizing for his being in regimentals: he had been on duty at the Horse Guards, and it was incredible dull work, and he did not mind telling Miss Parker he was thinking of selling out!

    Dimity went very pink. “Thank you so much, Lord Rupert! Only—only this is just a practice, you know: I am most inexpert in the waltz and—and—”

    “His toes can take it: military man. Besides, he has boots on,” said Mr Tarlington in a bored voice.

    Henry choked.

    “Come along, you may dance with me,” he said to her, still sounding bored, “and that will allow Wilf to lead your sister out. –And that is not a strange growth that has sprouted from his wrist, Cousin Alfreda: one is led to believe they’re for you.”

    With a quick glare at his old friend, Mr Rowbotham made a deep bow and presented Miss Parker with the flowers.

    “Oh! For me?” gasped the modest Miss Parker, quite overcome. “Oh, you should not have! Thank you so much, Mr Rowbotham: they are quite lovely!”

    “My absolute pleasure, Miss Parker,” said Wilfred Rowbotham, again bowing deeply. “And should you care to honour me for the dance, I should be most gratified, indeed.”

    “Why, yes: thank you,” said Alfreda. “I shall just lay the blooms on the piano, where they will be safe.” She would have hurried off to do so, but Mr Rowbotham, who was not so slow off the mark as his closest friends were wont to maintain, immediately offered her his arm, and led her over there with what could only be described as a smirk on his amiable face.

    Sir Noël having bowed gallantly before Miss Tarlington, and Felicity appearing quite pleased to waltz with him, although he was old and her brother’s friend, M. Desseaux signalled to his daughter and the music struck up.

    “Be advised: I cannot do this,” said Henry grimly to her partner.

    “That’s fair enough warning,” Mr Tarlington allowed.

    “Go on, then,” she prompted him sourly.

    “Miss Henrietta, I fear I must apprise you that in polite society, at all events, and most particularly at Almack’s Assembly Rooms, a young lady does not say to the gentleman who has invited her to dance: ‘Go on, then.’”

    “I dare say; though how you would know, I am at a loss to tell. And did you invite me? It felt rather more like an order, from where I was standing,” retorted Henry grimly.

    Mr Tarlington grinned. “Allow me to show you how it is done, then. I bow very low,”—he bowed very low—“and say, with the regulation silly look upon my phiz: ‘May I have the honour, Miss Henrietta?’ And you blush and curtsey and reply tremulously: ‘Oh! It would be my pleasure, Mr Tarlington!”

    Henry rolled her lips very tightly together: he had said this last in a very silly falsetto squeak.

    “Go on, then,” he said.

    She gulped. “I shall do no such thing. And hurry up, or M. Desseaux will come and nag at us.”

    “You’re a lost cause, Miss Henrietta. None of the pretty young men will ask you to dance at Almack’s, you know, if you treat ’em so harsh!” he said with a grin, taking her hand in his.

    “They will not anyway, I’m glad to say, for Fliss says young gentlemen never pay attentions to portionless young ladies,” said Henry blithely, unaware of the cloud that began to gather on her partner’s brow during this utterance. “And besides, I shall not dance the waltz at Almack’s even if by chance someone should ask me, for one has to be introduced to a partner for the waltz by one of the lady patronesses, and they do not notice portionless young women, either!”

    “Fliss told you that as well, I gather?” he said grimly, putting his other hand at her waist and attempting to draw her into the dance.

    “Yes.” Henry looked up at him. “Please could you count and say ‘now’ to start, Mr Tarlington, otherwise I can’t!”

    Mr Tarlington’s grip tightened quite noticeably both on her hand and at her waist: he said: “Ready? Now!” And started. Manfully ignoring his partner’s loud gulp as they did so.

    After perhaps two minutes Miss Henrietta hissed: “You are not counting!”

    “Will you be better if I do?” he murmured, nevertheless obediently starting to count: “One-two-three, one-two-three—”

    After perhaps a further two minutes of agony Miss Henrietta said despairingly into his chest: “You see: I am the worst in the whole room!”

    “I don’t deny it,” he murmured, albeit a trifle breathlessly. “Can you not relax and trust me to do the guiding?”

    “Is that what one must do?” she said innocently, looking up into his face. “Even when it is a gentleman, and not a dancing master?”

    Aden Tarlington flushed a little and said baldly: “Yes.”

    “I’m trying,” said Henry in a small voice. “Ooh! Sorry!”

    “Relax,” he said.

    “Perhaps if you hold me tighter?” she suggested doubtfully.

    “That would not be at all proper.”

    “Well, hang it, it would be easier!” said Henry crossly.

    “And that was not be at all proper, either: did you learn it off your brothers?”

    “I suppose so. And please count!”

    “—two-three... Do you intend asking the proper young gentlemen at Almack’s to count for you?”

    “I said: they will not ask me!” she panted. “—Sorry!”

    “Here comes M. Desseaux,” said Mr Tarlington in a kind voice. “He will tell us what the matter is.”

    M. Desseaux halted them, and endeavoured to explain to Henry what she was doing wrong.

    “Yes,” she said in a small voice. “I understand what you mean, M. Desseaux, and in my mind it is quite clear: only when I endeavour to put it into practice my feet will not do it!”

    Mr Tarlington gave a shout of laughter.

    “Perhaps it will be easier if I demonstrate,” said M. Desseaux. “If it would not incommode you, sir,” he added, bowing: “I shall be the lady.”

    An expression of unholy glee appeared in Mr Tarlington’s hard grey eyes: he bowed solemnly. “Delighted.”

    “Now, remark how I allow him to sweep me into the rhythm of the dance, Miss Henrietta,” said the plump little dancing master earnestly.

    “Shall I say ‘now’?” asked Mr Tarlington kindly.

    “That will not be necessary, sir,” M. Desseaux assured him serenely, curtseying.

    Mr Tarlington forthwith took him in his arms and swept him into the rhythm of the dance.

    “Et voilà!” he said as he was twirled back.

    Henry would not have laughed for the world: the poor little man was so earnest; but the effort not to do so very nearly killed her. “Yes,” she said limply.

    “Now, sir: if you will try it with Mlle Henrietta. –And there is no need to count, dear Miss Henrietta: a lady may rely on her gentleman for the measure, and Mr Tarlington,” he said, bowing to him, “is an excellent dancer. –At your convenience, sir.”

    Mr Tarlington bowed, took Miss Henrietta in his arms again, and swept her into the rhythm of the dance. Though admittedly not without a very firm pressure at her waist that amounted to a positive tug. “There: I did not even say ‘now’!” he congratulated them both.

    “Don’t speak,” said Henry through her teeth. “I’m concentrating.”

    “Rely on your gentleman for the measure,” he urged.

    “I am trying to!”

    Mr Tarlington endeavoured to waltz her lightly down the room. Apart from the fact that she was delightfully warm and smelled faintly of violets, it was extremely like dancing with a chair. Apparently Henry realized this: after a little she said in exasperation: “It’s hopeless! I saw him do it: what is wrong with me?”

    “Weil, he was pliant, you see. Obedient to my signals,” explained Mr Tarlington. “Ladylike.”

    “Make me laugh and I swear I will kill you!” said Henry fiercely.

    “It is scarcely that serious a matter, is it?”

    “What? No, you imbecile!” she hissed. “The poor little man’s feelings would be dreadfully hurt!”

    A strange little smile hovered for an instant on Mr Tarlington’s lips. “I see,” he murmured. “I beg your pardon. Well, just try to relax and follow me. Practice makes perfect, you know.”

    “Ssh, I cannot concentrate on relaxing if you chatter!”

    Obediently he stopped chattering.

    “Thank you,” said Henry glumly when the music stopped. “I’m afraid I stepped on you an awful lot. But at least you are wearing boots.”

    “Not at all, Miss Henrietta, the pleasure was all mine. He is going to start us up again after this lecture, I feel it in my bones. Will you dance with me again?”

    “I suppose I’ll have to,” she acknowledged glumly.

    His shoulders shook infinitesimally but, the lecture having started, he did not speak.

    The second waltz was a slight improvement on the first. She was still terribly wooden, but did not step on him so often. Each time he tried to speak she shushed him crossly, so he gave up.

    After that M. Desseaux decreed a short rest.

    “What is that volume you were reading?” he said, putting his hand under her elbow and urging her back to her chair.

    “Um—nothing.”

    “Rob Roy,” discovered Mr Tarlington, picking up the volume with a smile. “I would not call it precisely nothing: an amusing enough entertainment.

    Lord Rupert was standing nearby, having seen Miss Dimity to a seat. “Is that that thing by the author of Waverley? Mamma and the girls was aux anges over it. Went out and bought themselves tartan sashes and I know not what. Tried to persuade Papa to spend next summer touring Scotland.”

    “He agreed, of course,” noted Mr Tarlington dulcetly.

    Lord Rupert snorted. “Not he! He has shoved it off onto Harpy, poor dear fellow.”

    “That is his older brother, Viscount Harpingdon,” Mr Tarlington explained to Henry.

    “And will he, Lord Rupert?”

    “Oh, aye: I dare say. Well, the most pleasant-natured fellow alive, Harpy, y’know!”

    “I see. Have you read Rob Roy, yourself, Lord Rupert?”

    “Oh, Lord, no! Cannot abide the fellow’s things, y’know. Well, they gave me Waverley: appalling,” he said, shaking his head.

    “Not such a bad read in a week of wet winter weather,” noted Mr Tarlington. “Shall I ring for refreshments? You young ladies appear a little overheated.”

    “That would be wonderful, sir!” said Dimity in frank relief.

    “I thought no-one would ever suggest it!” said Henry with a sigh. “Please do, sir!”

    “You are living in the house, Miss Henrietta: you may ring for refreshments whenever you please,” he said colourlessly, going off to ring the bell.

    Lord Rupert coughed. “Don’t mind him: just his way, Miss Henrietta.”

    “No, I don’t. He is perfectly right, of course.”

    “Er—well, yes: you is like a daughter of the house, eh?” he said kindly to the pretty little dark thing.

    “What? Oh—no!” said Henry with a crow of laughter. “I meant his comments about Rob Roy and Waverley, sir!”

    “Uh—oh, I see. Uh—clever chap, Aden. Reads a lot, y’know.”

    Henry’s eyes sparkled but she merely said primly: “So I perceive.”

    After the refreshments M. Desseaux started them on country dances. It was Mr Tarlington’s private opinion that he did so because he could not bear to watch another second of Miss Henrietta’s abominable waltzing—but he did not voice it.

    The country dances went so well that the plump little dancing master was visibly encouraged, and the company considerably brightened, if breathless.

    “Now: we repose ourselves, chers messieurs dames, and then we essay again the waltz!” beamed M. Desseaux.

    “Oh, no,” muttered Henry.

    “But you have been struggling through it with Aden, dear Miss Henrietta!” said Sir Noël gaily. “Dance it with me, and we will show them all what a waltz should be!”

    Before the indignant Fliss could object that she did not wish to be left to waltz with her brother, Mr Rowbotham said smoothly: “And perhaps Miss Tarlington would honour me?”

    Fliss had known him all her life; nevertheless, for Mr Rowbotham was an excellent dancer, very light upon his feet and much sought after by hostesses both for this fact and for the other, almost as important, that he was too kind-natured to prop up the wall when any young lady lacked a partner, she accepted with a very good grace.

    Lord Rupert very properly immediately invited Alfreda, and Mr Tarlington bowed before the quailing Dimity.

    “It’s all right, Dimity,” said Henry, catching sight of the expression on her cousin’s face and misinterpreting it: “Mr Tarlington is an excellent dancer: M. Desseaux said so.”

    “Oh! I am sure!” she gasped, pinkening.

    It had clearly occurred to neither young lady that M. Desseaux might have said so because he knew damned well who would pay his bill. reflected Mr Tarlington, eyeing them sardonically.

    Sir Noël Amory was also an excellent dancer. He did not pause to let Henry express hesitation, or give him directions, or indeed draw breath, when the music struck up, but whirled her away, not speaking, and holding her quite a lot more tightly than Mr Tarlington had done.

    “Oh!” gasped Henry in delight as they flew along. Sir Noël smiled. “Oh, you are a wonderful dancer, Sir Noël!” she said naively.

    Sir Noël smiled again, and did not contradict her.

    After a little Dimity said in a tiny voice: “Mr Tarlington, you are hurting my hand.”

    “What? Oh—dammit! I’m sorry, Cousin Dimity,” he said ruefully, relaxing his iron grip on her poor little hand.

    Dimity peeped at him uncertainly. “Am I doing it correctly, sir?”

    “Mm? Oh—yes, you’re not bad at all. Better than your cousin,” he said, his eyes on Henry being whirled round a corner by the baronet.

    “She would not practise, at school. She used to hide during the dancing lessons and read a book,” she confided shyly.

    He smiled. “Aye, I can just see it!”

    “She—she is not used to society, just yet, Mr Tarlington,” ventured Dimity.

    “Mm? Oh—no! And long may it last,” he muttered, half to himself.

    Dimity peeped up at him uncertainly but did not dare to venture any further remarks.

    M. Desseaux delivered another lecture, this time rather more complimentary than critical, and announced there would be time for one last waltz.

    “You may have the golden version,” said Mr Tarlington bluntly to his former companion-in-arms, leading Dimity up to him.

   Sir Noël bowed gracefully. “I resign you the dark version, dear fellow. You will find her waltzing vastly improved, now that she has had the experience of being partnered by an expert.”

    “Yes, he was splendid!” beamed Henry unaffectedly. “And I only trod on him once!”

    “You are improving, Henry!” cried Dimity, not at all displeased to have handsome, charming Sir Noël as her partner instead of her strange, abrupt-mannered, dark-visaged cousin. And pretty sure that “the golden version” had not been a compliment.

    “Tactics is all, Aden,” noted Sir Noël over his shoulder, bearing his golden-haired prize away.

    “What did he mean?” asked Henry.

    “Nothing. He’s a damned impertinent fribble. Ignore him.”

    “I thought he was your friend?” she said in surprize.

    “Uh—yes. Gazetted flirt, though. And you had best warn your sister, too: he is near as bad as his Uncle Bobby.”

    “Very well, I shall. Though Alfreda is too sensible to be taken in by silly fashionable men who pay her pretty compliments. But thank you for the warning, Mr Tarlington.”

    “Not at all,” he said limply.

    “I think he held me tighter than you did,” offered Henry on a helpful note.

    “Did he, indeed?”

    “I think it was that: it made it easier to follow him.”

    At the piano Mlle Desseaux started up; her father cried: “Take your partners, messieurs dames!” and Mr Tarlington, scowling horribly, swept Henry tightly into his arms. Henry said nothing: she was entirely disconcerted. In one way it was like dancing with pleasant, laughing Sir Noël, but then again it was not at all like that. And Mr Tarlington did not appear even to be enjoying himself!

    “Better?” he said after quite some time.

    “Yes—oh! Sorry!”

    “Never mind: it’s a record for us,” he said, smiling. “The best part of a whole dance with only one slight flesh-wound.”

    “Yes. Were you and Sir Noël in the same regiment, sir?”

    Mr Tarlington frowned once more and said shortly: “Yes.”

    Mlle Desseaux brought the waltz to a triumphant conclusion. Those who had achieved such crafty manoeuvres as the reverse laughed and clapped a little, and panted and congratulated one another; and there was a general pleasant hubbub, M. Desseaux joining in with congratulations all round.

    Mr Tarlington bowed to Miss Henrietta and offered his arm. “Don’t pretend,” said Henry heavily.

    “I am not pretending. Thank you for the dance, Miss Henrietta.”

    “Rubbish!” she hissed. “And there is no need to address me incessantly as ‘Miss Henrietta’: after beating me soundly on the road to Upper Beighnham, you cannot possibly think of me as a proper young lady!”

    “That is very true, and in fact I do not think of you as a proper young lady.”

    Henry looked at him suspiciously.

    “Will you drive out with me in my curricle tomorrow morning?” he drawled.

    “Why?”

    The long mouth twitched. “Oh—to preserve me from all the proper young ladies,” he said lightly.

    Henry’s deep sapphire eyes narrowed. “Do they plague you?”

    “Mm. Toad-eat me, most often. Or attempt to flirt. Only as I’m no Adonis, and as it never happened before I inherited Uncle Jeremiah Aden’s fortune, somehow, I know not how, I have acquired the notion that they do it because they’re after my fortune.”

    “Well, I’m not after your fortune: shall we have a bargain?” said Henry eagerly. “I shall protect you from the young ladies. if you will protect me from the shopping expeditions and being made into a young lady!”

    “They have a shopping expedition planned for tomorrow, have they?”

    Henry shuddered, nodding. “Stockings and gloves. I have a drawer full of stockings and gloves, and a person cannot wear more than a pair of each at a time!”

    “It’s a bargain,” he said solemnly. “We shall form ourselves into... let me see: The Anti-Y.L. League, upon the spot!”

    “That is not bad, considering you were doing it extempore,” she conceded, again narrowing the eyes.

    Mr Tarlington flung back his head and laughed.

    “Ssh!” warned Henry as Miss Parker glanced their way.

    “Don’t you wish me to prove I can roar like a lion, too? ‘I will aggravate my voice so,’” said Mr Tarlington in the silly, squeaky voice he had earlier used: “‘that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove’.”

    Henry’s jaw dropped.

    “What: did you think there was no-one here who had opened a book besides yourself?” he murmured.

    “No!” she gasped.

    “Yes, you did,” he said, grinning. “I grant you poor dear Wilf has not opened a volume since his schooldays, and I don’t think Rupert can actually read,”—Henry involuntarily choked—“but Noël is almost literate. When he bothers.”

    “What do you say of your enemies?” she wondered.

    He shrugged. “Nothing very much, Miss Henrietta.”

    Henry’s eyes sparkled. “You are really not stupid, are you? It is such a relief!”

    “Thank you. Then you will come driving with me?”

    “Well... I shan’t mind if you change your mind,” she said earnestly.

    Concealing his shock, he replied: “I shall not change my mind, Miss Henrietta.”

    Lady Tarlington raised herself on her elbow and peered crossly at her youngest daughter. “What did you say?”

    Very flushed and pouty, Fliss repeated: “I said, Henry is driven out with Aden, Mamma, and it is all your fault!”

    With an effort, Lady Tarlington struggled to a sitting position in her bed. “How is it my fault, pray?”

    “Because you were not there to stop them!” cried Fliss.

    Her mother peered at the ornate little gilt clock on the table next the bed. “Nonsense, child, I am never up at this hour. Why did Alfreda not prevent it?”

    Fliss sniffed resentfully. “Because she undoubtedly wishes to see her sister marry Aden’s fortune! Why else?”

    Lady Tarlington thought it over frowning. “I cannot see it. The girl never thinks of gentlemen, she is the most unsophisticated creature I have come across this many a long— And besides, Aden would not think of it! A penniless little Miss from a country vicarage? He has too great a notion of his consequence!”

    “Then why has he asked her to drive?” she cried.

    “I dare say he thought she might amuse him, for the odd hour. Well, she is quite a quaint little thing. I am sure there is no need to panic.” Lady Tarlington rang her bell. “But you did well to warn me, my dear: of course it is not something that we can let continue. Quite ineligible. –Where is the woman?” she added crossly. “Yes, quite ineligible. But he has never appeared to me to show the slightest interest in the girl— Have you noticed anything?” she added sharply.

    “Well, no,” admitted Fliss, pouting.

    “No.” Lady Tarlington frowned. “Aden is so disobliging! Why he could not have asked the cousin to drive—! Well, it is all of a piece.”

    “Yes.” said Fliss, looking vindicated. “And he is never going to offer for Dimity, Mamma, he does not even like her!”

    “Rubbish. I could wish that your brother Edmund were not such a—” She broke off.

    “Prude,” said Fliss helpfully. “You will never get him to London for the Season, Mamma, however hard you try. And he would only say that Dimity is a frivolous Miss.”

    “I dare say, but there is no use in repining. –Where is that woman?” She rang the bell again.

    “Did I do well to tell you, Mamma?” asked Fliss on a hopeful note.

    “What? Oh: yes, yes, very well, though it could have waited. Oh, there you are, Needham,” she said, as her maid appeared, looking flustered and extremely startled. “I will have my chocolate now. –We shall have to keep an eye on Aden, for the future,” she said to Fliss, not waiting until the door should have closed behind Needham, “for it would not do, at all! Though I dare say he has done it merely to annoy,” she ended crossly.

    Fliss had not thought of that, but now that Mamma mentioned it, it seemed more than likely. Her face fell. “Oh.”

    “Well, run along, child!” said Lady Tarlington on an irritable note.

    “Yes, Mamma,” said Fliss in a squashed voice, vanishing.

    Lady Tarlington sank back against her pillows, her thin face contorted in a frown. Felicity had been quite right to come to her, and even if there was nothing in it as yet, the thing must be nipped in the bud immediately. Because even if Aden did imagine he was doing it merely to annoy, gentlemen could be extremely foolish when it came to a pretty young woman.

    Mr Tarlington had handed the pretty young woman into the curricle with the remark: “It ain’t my racing curricle, but nevertheless do not imagine you will get to hold the ribbons.”

    “How did you know I—?” Henry broke off.

    “Call it a mixture of instinct and experience,” he drawled.

    “Do you race?” she asked, as he swung himself up beside her.

    “Certainly.”

    “I wish I might watch. I suppose young ladies don’t?”

    “You suppose correctly. –Come along, Tomkins, let ’em go!” he added to the groom who was at the horses’ heads.

    Henry looked at the man with interest as he let go the horses’ heads and hurriedly ran to swing himself up behind. “Good morning, Tomkins,” she said, turning round to smile at him. “We have met before, I think?”

    The burly, grizzled groom beamed all over his rugged face and said: “Aye, that we have, Missy! On the road to Upper Beighnham, it were, with one o’ them bony nags we picked up at the last stage a-lyin’ in his blood in the road!”

    “Yes, poor thing,” said Henry, reddening.

    “He would have gone to the knacker sooner or late, Missy, and he weren’t no loss!” said the man cheerfully.

    “That will do,” said Mr Tarlington over his shoulder in a blighting tone.

    “Right you are, Major!” the man agreed cheerfully.

    Henry smiled at him again but, somewhat to Aden Tarlington’s surprize, did not encourage him to continue the conversation in the face of his master’s expressed wishes. Instead she turned to her escort and said: “Were you a major?”

    “Yes.”

    “Oh.” Henry hesitated. She looked at his profile: the hard, regular features expressed nothing. “Do you miss the Army life?”

    “I suppose I do not miss the discomforts.”

    “What about the responsibilities?”

    “I— You are very percipient, Miss Henrietta. Yes, I miss managing officers and man.”

    “We has the estates, Miss,” put in the groom.

    “Yes: your mamma mentioned you have a house in the country as well as a house in town, sir: does the estate keep you busy?”

    “Not very.”

    Henry sighed.

    Mr Tarlington bit his lip. “I am not being deliberately uncommunicative, Miss Henrietta: it is just...”

    “He ain’t a-used to talkin’ to young ladies,” said Tomkins helpfully.

    “One more remark out of you and you will get down and walk!” he said angrily.

    Tomkins grinned, but was silent.

    “Was Tomkins in the regiment with you, sir?” asked Henry.

    “Yes; what else could have encouraged him to become so impertinent? And if we were still in the regiment, he would be up upon a charge at this instant!”

    Henry squirmed round and looked doubtfully at Tomkins. He winked solemnly. She gave a delighted laugh, and turned back.

    “And sit still, for God’s sake,” groaned Mr Tarlington.

    “I have never been in a curricle before.”

    “That is fairly evident. And if you do not wish to fall out of one, sit still!”

    Henry was both still and silent. She stared intently ahead of her. After quite some time, when she glanced at his hands, Mr Tarlington realized what she was doing. He groaned. “No, you may not take the ribbons.”

    “I wasn’t asking!” she said indignantly.

    “Nor you were. How can I persuade you that, even if you have a perfect grasp of both the theory and the practicalities of driving a team, you will never be able to hold a team of mine? It requires not only skill but a certain strength.”

    “They did seem a bit wild when we started,” she agreed cheerfully.

    Tomkins made a choking noise.

    “They are fresh,” said their owner coldly.

    “I’d call it more than that,” returned Henry cheerfully. “—There’s a corner coming up.”

    “Mm.” He looped a rein and they rounded the corner at a spanking pace.

   Henry sighed deeply. “That was good. –I suppose you would not even teach me to drive a pair,” she noted.

    “Er—can you drive at all?”

    “Yes, I can drive one horse, in a trap.”

    “One horse in a trap,” he muttered.

    “In any case, I suppose your mamma wouldn’t permit it.”

    Mr Tarlington frowned. “Oh?”

    “It will be one more of those things young ladies do not do, don’t tell me.”

    “Sir, I could teach Missy!” burst out Tomkins.

    “I told you to hold your tongue! –Well, so could I teach you, Miss Henrietta. But it would mean getting Mamma’s permission.”

    “There, you see?” she said sadly.

    Mr Tarlington saw that, to the contrary, she did not see at all: it was not the ineligibility of it for a young lady that his mamma would object to: but he had no doubt at all that she would object. He smiled suddenly, and said: “Well, never mind. Once I’ve shaken the fidgets out of the team you may take the reins for a little, but only in the Park.”

    “Oh, thank you, Mr Tarlington!” gasped Henry.

    Mr Tarlington drove on for a little without speaking. Then he said: “The estate that I inherited from old Cousin Jeremiah Aden had been sadly neglected over the last ten years or so of the old man’s life. He had an agent, but the fellow was not only useless, he was dishonest into the bargain, and I fired him immediately. It is good land thereabouts but it has taken some time to get it back into anything like decent condition. And the tenant farms were not in good heart: the agent had been screwing every last groat out of them, largely to line his own pockets. Er—over-cropping, over-grazing and so forth.”

    “And what forth?”

    “No hedges or fences had been mended for an age, very little ditching had been done, the existing ditches were clogged with débris. None of the farm buildings had had any repairs done to them, and there were many leaking roofs to be seen to; and in the case of the farmhouses several chimneys badly in need of repointing. The tenants had—well, let us say the good tenants had done their best to effect repairs at their own expense, but it is not every tenant farmer who wishes to put his own money into capital repairs that will largely benefit his landlord.”

    “No, indeed: especially when the landlord is such a bad one! And the tied cottages, sir?”

    He made a face. “In truly shocking condition. In the end I had most of them pulled down: the unfortunate creatures condemned to live in them acted as if their last hour had come, far from being grateful to be given clean, new, modern cottages to live in!”

    “Papa says the people are like that,” she said softly. “They would rather cling to what they are familiar with, however uncomfortable or unpleasant, than venture on anything new.”

    “Exactly,” he said with a rueful smile. “So your papa is the sort of man who thinks analytically about the persons with whom he has to deal in his profession, is he?”

    “He thinks about everything. He’s a very intelligent man. I miss him,” said Henry with a sigh. “Though he’s also quite impossibly good!” she added with a grin.

    “I see,” said Mr Tarlington, twinkling at her.

    “What did you do,” said Henry slowly, “in the hiatus between pulling their cottages down and rehousing them?”

    “There was no hiatus, Miss Henrietta: I had the new housing built first.”

    “That was very right in you!” she approved, beaming.

    “I am glad to merit your approval,” he said sedately.

    “Don’t be silly. So how are things on the estate now?”

    “Going very much better. The people have settled in the new cottages, I have got rid of a couple of rascally tenants the former agent had put in, and have put a stop to the over-grazing. Though not without having to compensate the unfortunate owners of the sheep.”

    “I see. –So you run sheep in those parts?”

    “Quite extensively, though there is also mixed cropping. I’ve introduced a system of crop rotation which has been tried very successfully in Norfolk, and it’s gradually—er—winning friends!” he ended with a little laugh.

   Henry nodded understandingly. “You would have met with considerable resistance from the farmers, no doubt.”

    “Yes. New-fangled ideas,” said Mr Tarlington with a sigh.

    “Fixed in their ways, them country folk be. They ain’t seen nothin’ of the world, like me and the Major,” said the voice from behind them informatively.

    “I hate to admit it, but Tomkins is in the right of it!” his master admitted with a rueful laugh.

    “Aye. It were an uphill battle, Missy, but—”

    “Should you care for me to get up behind so as you may take the ribbons. Tomkins?” said Mr Tarlington sweetly. “I feel you and Miss Henrietta are finding it difficult to pursue your conversation with you back there.”

    “Oh, not at all, sir,” said Henry dulcetly.

    He grinned. “I suppose I set myself up for that.”

    “Yes!” she said, laughing.

    He glanced at her with a little smile.

    In the Park they drove sedately up and down for some time. The exercise was not such as precisely to tire Mr Tarlington’s horses, but when Henry eventually said: “May I take the ribbons now, sir?” he agreed, with the proviso that he would not let go.

   Henry looked dubious but did not argue. Mr Tarlington let her close her hands on the ribbons and explained how to hold them. “Got them?” he said. She nodded, and he lifted his hands for an instant.

    The team abruptly quickened their pace, Henry gasped, and Mr Tarlington’s hands came down hard over hers.

    “I’m sorry!” she gulped.

    “There is no harm done. They are still a trifle fresh.”

    “Yes. You’re right: I don’t have the strength to hold them.”

    “No. But we’ll find a less frequented path, and try shaking the fidgets out of ’em, and then you may try again—if you would like to?”

    Henry nodded eagerly.

    “Good.”

    On the less frequented path he dropped his hands and the four chestnuts shot forward eagerly. Henry gasped and grabbed the side of the curricle. Mr Tarlington saw this out of the corner of his eye but made no remark.

    “That was splendid!” she said when the path petered out in a maze of smaller tracks and he pulled up for the turn.

    “Mm. We’ll go up and down again a few times, I think.”

    “Aye: stretch their legs,” agreed Tomkins.

    They flew up and down again several times before Mr Tarlington felt that Henry would be safe holding the reins again. This time the team again jerked forward as the touch on the reins changed but this time, he saw with some surprize, Henry was ready for them.

    “Natural whip, she be,” noted Tomkins with interest.

    “Aye. Pity you were born a girl,” said Mr Tarlington on a dry note that escaped both Henry and the groom.

    “Yes!” she gasped, her eyes on the horses’ heads. “If only I were male and wealthy, I would have strings of horses!”

    “Well, it has been known. But would your papa say it was a worthy ambition?” he said, gently taking the ribbons as they neared the end the path.

    “No, of course not! –Thank you so much, sir, that was great fun! I suppose I may not turn them?”

    Mr Tarlington winced. “You suppose correctly.”

    Tomkins leaned forward eagerly and explained about the circle needed in which to turn a team, the ease with which reins would get tangled in the hands of a less expert driver, the extreme difficulties of backing four horses...

    Henry listened intently. “Thank you, Tomkins: it’s much more complex than it looks,” she said.

    “That it be, Missy!” said the groom pleasedly.,

    Mr Tarlington smiled a little and this time did not reprove his groom for speaking without being invited to do so.

    They had reached the other end of the path again when two riders were espied coming towards them down a side path. Mr Tarlington sighed.

    “Why, is that not your friend Mr Rowbotham?” said Henry pleasedly.

    “Yes; it is not like him to be out of his bed at this hour. Possibly his clock is wrong.”

    Henry waved and smiled at Mr Rowbotham. “Who is the other gentleman? I don’t think I know him.”

    “Harpingdon: did not know he was in town. Er—Viscount Harpingdon, he is Rupert Narrowmine’s brother.”

    “Yes, of course: you mentioned him when we were practising our dancing. I haven’t met a viscount before.”

    “Harpy is a decent fellow: you needn’t hold it against him that he’s the eldest son.”

    “Don’t be silly,” said Henry tranquilly. “Good morning, Mr Rowbotham!” she cried eagerly as the two gentlemen approached. “Guess what! I have been driving Mr Tarlington’s horses!”

    Mr Rowbotham had politely removed his hat; at this he dropped it.

    Mr Tarlington had drawn up. “Hop down and get Mr Rowbotham’s hat, Tomkins,” he said in a bored voice. “Hullo, Harpy: did not know you was in town.”

    “I’ve been down at Harpingdon Manor: just came up,” said the man with Mr Rowbotham, also removing his hat. “How are you, Aden?”

    “Bearing up. I think you have not met Miss Henrietta Parker? She’s some sort of a connection through your mamma and mine.”

    Viscount Harpingdon was a slim man of middle height, of around Mr Tarlington’s own age. He did not resemble his burly blond brother, Lord Rupert, but had neat brown hair, brown eyes, a thin face, and a slightly wistful expression. His smile, however, was very kind; he smiled now and said to her: “Of course. I think it is Cousin Simeon Parker who is your papa, is that not correct, Miss Henrietta? I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m Harpingdon.”

    “Yes, so Mr Tarlington said,” said Henry, smiling. “How do you do, Viscount Harpingdon? We had the pleasure of seeing your brother, Lord Rupert, only yesterday.”

    “Indeed: Rupert mentioned you all had a fine time!” said Lord Harpingdon, smiling again.

    Henry blushed a little, fearing that the impromptu dance had not been the done thing, and Harpingdon immediately said: “I have told him he has all the luck, meeting all our charming cousins at the once: he has really stolen a march on me!”

    “Oh! No!” said Henry with a flustered but very pleased laugh.

    Mr Tarlington perceived sardonically that Harpy was working his usual miracle upon the socially gauche—of either sex: Harpingdon was very much liked by all who knew him. “Yes, well, you can meet ’em all if you can brave the horrors of Almack’s, Harpy, for Mamma means to drag ’em along.”

    “Splendid! In that case I will book the first dance with Miss Henrietta now, if I may?”

    “Oh!” said Henry, very flustered. “Um—is that usually done, Mr Tarlington?”

    Mr Rowbotham had now recovered his hat and his composure: he came up to Henry’s side of the curricle, smiling, and said: “Oh, Lor’, don’t ask Aden, Miss Henrietta: he is the most uncouth fellow alive! Allow me to assure you it’s quite the done thing, and to book the second dance with you.”

    “Well—well, thank you, Mr Rowbotham. And—and thank you, too, Lord Harpingdon.”

    Lord Harpingdon asked exactly which day they might expect to meet Henrietta at Almack’s. Henry told him but suddenly became flustered again and gasped: “Oh! But I can’t dance with either of you, sirs, if it be a waltz!”

    “Now that,” said Mr Tarlington to the pale forget-me-not sky, “is true.”

    “No, I mean, it is some stupid convention!” gulped Henry.

    “Countess Lieven is a close friend of Mamma’s, and if it be a waltz, I promise you she will present me to you for it,” said Lord Harpingdon with a lurking twinkle.

    “Oh. Countess Lieven?” said Henry dazedly.

    “Certainly.”

    “I thought she was a very high stickler?” she said dazedly.

    “Aye: only Harpy’s a viscount, you see,” said M Tarlington drily.

    “That’ll do, Aden: no need to teaze her: she cannot help it if it’s her first time in town,” said Mr Rowbotham briskly. “And may I remind you what a cake you made of yourself, the first time you was at Almack’s?”

    Mr Tarlington’s jaw sagged.

    “Did he really, Mr Rowbotham?” said Henry eagerly.

    “Oh, absolutely! Turns up in the most frightful waistcoat I ever laid eyes on.”

    Henry looked doubtful. “I see.”

    “Abominable neckcloth, of course; only Aden’s always are.”

    Henry looked dubiously at Mr Tarlington’s neat neckcloth.

    “And then he goes and asks a young lady for the waltz! Of course he has no idea she may not dance it, and she turns him down flat. Then he asks another: same result. See what I mean? Fellow made a real cake of himself!”

    “I see!” she choked. “It must have been a salutary experience, indeed!”

     Mr Rowbotham, very pleased that his story had gone down so well, nodded happily; Mr Tarlington and his cousin could see that Miss Henrietta’s amusement was not quite of the quality the innocent Wilfred assumed: they exchanged glances, smiling a little.

    The two gentlemen, chatting easily, rode beside the curricle for some time. Back in the street they declared their intention of taking their leave. Henry asked with interest what they were going to do now: Mr Rowbotham rolled an anguished eye at Harpy. Lord Harpingdon smiled his kind smile and said: “We thought would look in at Jackson’s Boxing Salon for a little single-stick, Cousin Henrietta.”

    “I see; so that is the sort of thing gentlemen do during the day!”

    “Yes, indeed.”

    “Wilf only does it when someone drags him forcibly out of his pit, of course,” noted Mr Tarlington drily.

    “I would ignore that,” Mr Rowbotham advised Henrietta.

    “Yes; I am gradually learning that one must discount half he says.”

    “More than half, ma’am!” he said laughing. “Er—if you would convey my sincere compliments to Miss Parker, I should be grateful, Miss Henrietta. And if I may,” he said with a defiant glance at his old friend, “I should very much like to call on her tomorrow.”

    “Alfreda will be very pleased to see you, sir,” said Henry limply.

    Mr Rowbotham beamed, and the two gentlemen made their farewells, and rode off.

    “Your sister has made a great hit with Wilf, it would appear,” said Mr Tarlington.

    Henry frowned. “Do you not approve?”

    “I approve entirely. He is a very good fellow. And Cousin Alfreda strikes me as both lovely and virtuous.”

    Henry swallowed convulsively. “Yes. She is!”

    He hesitated. “Surely you did not think I would disapprove?”

    “Well, he is your friend, sir, and we are nobodies from an obscure country parsonage.”

    Mr Tarlington’s lips tightened. “Fliss told you that, I must presume?”

    “She did not need to, sir, it is self-evident.”

    He frowned. After a moment he said: “I was merely a little surprized that Wilfred— I mean, he’s a frippery fellow, you know: never shown the slightest interest in paying anything like serious court to a young lady.”

    “I see. But possibly he has not had a chance to be anything but frippery—has anyone ever taken him seriously, in fact?”

    “Er... I dare say not.”

    “No. Well, I admit Alfreda is very serious-minded and probably will not do for him after all, but I am glad you do not disapprove, at all events.”

    “Good,” he said lamely.

    They drove on a little and Henry said abruptly: “Is Lord Harpingdon married?”

    Mr Tarlington’s nostrils flared a little. “Why do you ask?”

    Henry smiled at him. “He seems such a lovely person, sir: I think he would be the nicest father imaginable!”

    “Father? Harpy is my age,” he said limply.

    “Well, that is quite old,” said Henry blithely. “Has he a family, sir?”

    “He has two little girls, but he is a widower.”

    “That is very sad.”

    Mr Tarlington bit his lip. “Not entirely. It was an arranged marriage and—uh—I think you’re too young to hear it, Cousin.”

    Behind them, Tomkins sniffed loudly, but it was impossible to determine whether this was in agreement with his master’s statement or not.

    “Rubbish! I am not a nincompoop!” said Henry strongly.

    “Er—no. Well, for God’s sake don’t tell anyone it was I who told you.”

    “I just said I’m not a nincompoop,” returned Henry drily.

    “So you did. Er—as I said, it was an arranged marriage, and it turned out that though Margaret was willing enough to become a viscountess, she was not at all interested in being Harpy’s wife. Um... she came from an old family and Blefford and his wife very much wanted the alliance, but she had grown up very wild. She was used to doing precisely as she pleased and after the marriage she continued to do so. I don’t think they spent more than a few days under the same roof together in the five years she was married to him.”

    Henry thought it over. “I see. And the little girls?”

    Mr Tarlington returned simply: “They are twins. They are not his.”

    Henry merely nodded.

    “It is not mentioned, but everyone knows. Harpy is extremely fond of them. Their mother ran off when they were something like two years old; not with the father. Blefford had a divorce bill brought down and she remarried, though not the fellow she had run off with. They heard nothing of her for about three years, then around the time Boney was confined on Elba she turned up in London again on the arm of some sort of Russian Prince. Well, it was damned difficult: he had to be received, you see, and she was living with him as his wife. But many doors remained closed to her. Harpy’s friends were counting the days until the Russian should take her off to the steppes with him. But then he called some fellow out—some sort of a German officer from one of the embassies—on the score that he had made advances to Margaret.”

    “And did they fight?”

    “Mm. Pistols. The German was killed, and when Margaret heard the news, she first took a shot at the Prince and then shot herself.”

    “How dreadful!”

    “No, it wasn’t dreadful, Henry,” he said grimly: “it was a damned good riddance, and all Harpy’s friends rejoiced.”

    “I see,” said Henry slowly.

    “Yes. It was a shocking scandal at the time, but the Russian went off home and—well—Harpy is so very much liked that one never hears it mentioned at all these days.”

    “That’s good. –Those poor little girls. How old are they, Cousin?”

    “They must be ten or eleven, now. They live quietly down at Harpingdon Manor with a governess. Blefford don’t permit ’em to visit. Even though of course they have Harpy’s name.”

    “Not permit them to visit the man they must believe to be their grandpapa?” said Henry in horror. “Oh, how dreadful! The man must be a brute!”

    “He is certainly a very cold, hard personality. As different from Harpy as you could possibly imagine. Well, Rupert isn’t in the least like him, either.”

    After a minute Henry said: “What about Lady Blefford, sir?”

    “Not interested.”

    Henry’s eyes filled with tears. She swallowed convulsively.

    “That’s polite society for you, Miss Henrietta.”

    “Yes,” said Henry, sniffing. “—Please don’t call me that, I dislike it so much.”

    Aden Tarlington bit his lip. “I think the cats would gossip about you, if I were to call you Henry.”

    Henry sniffled, and rubbed a hand across her eyes. “You just did.”

    “Did I?” he said with a shaken laugh. “Er—well, perhaps ‘Cousin Henry’ would not be ineligible.”

    She nodded hard. “I shall ask Alfreda, she will know. And I tell you what! When it is just us,” she said, lighting up very much, “then you could just call me Henry! After all, we are the Anti-Y.L. League, are we not?”

    “Uh—oh, so we are,” he said limply.

    “Good.” She hesitated. “Thank you very much for telling me that about your friend. I did not mean to pry. And I won’t tell anyone.”

    “You may tell Alfreda,” he said abruptly.

    “Thank you, I should like to. She will not treat it as a piece of salacious gossip, you may rest assured.”

    “I know.”

    Henry smiled, and nodded. And wondered if perhaps Mr Tarlington, since he obviously admired Alfreda very much, might admire her enough to marry her. Which would be splendid! It would mean that Tim would be able to go to school, and the vicarage could have a new stove after all, and she herself would have Mr Tarlington for a brother, and need never pretend to be a young lady for the rest of her life!

    Alfreda listened quietly to an account of the drive, the excitement of holding the ribbons, the encounter with the two gentlemen, and the sad story of Viscount Harpingdon’s marriage.

    “How very, very sad,” she said, her gentle blue eyes filling with tears. “I cannot imagine how anyone could be so cruel to two little children: it is not their fault they are not Lord Blefford’s grandchildren.”

    “No, exactly! But Lord Harpingdon is a truly lovely man, Alfreda, I should think he is a delightful father to them!”

    “I am glad. Er—Henry, my love?”

    Henry ate up the last crumbs of the cake that Taunton had kindly provided, unrequested, together with a glass of milk, to refresh her after the drive. “Mm?”

    Alfreda bit her lip. Henry was such an innocent, in so many ways, and it was such a pity that she must say what she had to say, but— “Dearest, Lady Tarlington was not best pleased to learn that you had driven out with Mr Tarlington.”

    “I can imagine! She’s afraid I will monopolize him so that he will not pay any attentions to proper young ladies! Only he has no intentions anyway of paying attentions to any young ladies.”

    “Er—no. But I’m afraid, if he should ask you again, you must say ‘no’, my love: it will not do to flout her wishes, while we are living in her house.”

    Henry nodded. “We thought she might try to stop us. He says he will speak to her: but I dare say it won’t do any good, for say what he will, he’ll never turn me into a young lady with a fortune! Never mind, we had one lovely drive, and I got to drive the team myself!”

    “I see, dear. Um—Henry, you—you like him, do you ?”

    “Yes!” said Henry with shining eyes. “I like him very much, even though half the time he is as cross as a bear! But he’s intelligent, and there is no pretence about him: he says what he thinks! And I think he must be an excellent landlord: he was telling me how he has been getting his old cousin’s estate in order.”

    “Indeed? Well, that is very admirable.”

    “Yes. And although he is a strange, abrupt sort of personality,” said Henry, narrowing her eyes, “and rather hard, to boot, he has several close friends. And I don’t think a person as nice as Lord Harpingdon would be friends with a man that was not decent at heart and—and right-thinking.” She eyed her anxiously.

    “Very true, my love. A man’s friends will often tell much about the quality of his character.”

    “Yes,” said Henry, nodding. “Alfreda, do you like him better, or Mr Rowbotham?”

    “I—well, they are very different personalities; I—I suppose I... I like both of them, dear,” she said weakly.

    “But don’t you have a preference?”

    Alfreda swallowed. “Er—well—no.”

    Henry’s face fell. “Oh. Um... Mr Rowbotham is very pleasant but his is not as serious a personality as yours.”

    “Er—no.”

    “On the other hand, in spite of his manner, I feel that Mr T.’s is fundamentally a serious personality.”

    “Yes, I feel that, too.”

    “Oh, good! Alfreda, although he is quite old, do you feel you could ever like him enough to marry him?”

    “Me?” she gasped.

    Henry nodded eagerly.

    “I—I— My love, he does not affect me.”

    “He admires you very much! He said you were both lovely and virtuous!” she said eagerly. “Is not that a delightful thing to say?”

    Alfreda was very pink. “Mr Tarlington said that of me?”

    “Yes! So he must admire you: you see?”

    Miss Parker swallowed. “It—it was very kind of him, but I—I do not think I could ever… Besides, I don’t think he admires me in the way you mean.”

    “How can you know?” she demanded, frowning.

    “Oh, dear,” said Miss Parker limply.

    “Say you married him and had your first child within—well, within eighteen months,” said Henry on an eager note: “then he would be—um—I think he’s about thirty-three or -four now—well, he would be, say forty-five or -six when it was ten and when it attained its majority, fifty-six or seven. Is that too old?”

    “No, I suppose not, but why are you trying to marry me off to Mr T.?” said Alfreda wildly.

    “He’s got lots of money.”

    “Henry Parker!”

    “I don’t mean that’s the only consideration, but if you like him and he admires you, we could use the money, Alfreda. Don’t rich gentlemen make huge settlements when they marry?”

    “Henry, much though I like Mr Tarlington, I fear you must give up this scheme.”

    “You mean he is too old,” she said sadly.

    “No! It is just that I know I could never care for him in that way!”

    “Perhaps if you get could know him a bit better, Alfreda—”

    “Henry, dearest,” said Miss Parker, taking a very deep breath: “it is impossible. I could never care for him. And I am very sure he has never given me a thought in that way, either. And please, my dear, do not insist.”

    “Could you not try?”

    “No!” almost screamed Miss Parker.

    Henry got up, looking very red and cross. “Well, it is too bad! I had it all figured out, and he was going to be my brother and I could have learned to drive properly, and everything! And now I never shall! And I don’t see why you can’t like him, he’s not that bad! And Tim could have gone to school and Cook could have had a decent stove!” Abruptly she burst into tears and ran out of the room.

    Miss Parker sat back dazedly on the sofa. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” she said, laughing weakly. “Did I say she was an innocent?”

    She laughed for some time. but eventually blew her nose. and murmured to herself: “All the same... I think I shall write Mamma. And it can do no harm to encourage her liking for him—even if he is old! Oh, dear! But wanting him for a brother may be the first step, if the little goose does not know it herself, as yet!”

    Inexplicably, in the way of these things in families. Mr Rowbotham’s meek but determined pursuit of Alfreda had, regrettably but definitely, become a joke within the week.

    Dimity giggled. “It is too killing: he has sent her three posies in a week!”

    “Two of which he brought personally: that must count for something in the posy stakes,” noted Henry.

    “Yes!” she choked.

    “Mamma says Mr Rowbotham has never been known to pay serious court to a lady,” said Fliss uncertainly.

    “He had never before met Alfreda, you see,” explained Dimity primly. Henry rolled her laps very tightly together.

    “Well, no...” owned Fliss dubiously. “But Mamma says he has but a younger son’s allowance.”

    “Who is his older brother?” asked Henry.

    “Sir Cedric Rowbotham. He is terribly proper.”

    “Sir— You do not mean our ambassador to the Prussian court, Fliss?” she said in amazement.

    Fliss looked vague. “He does something political—or is it diplomatic? Um—well. I suppose that is he, if you say so, Henry, after all it is you who are always reading the Morning Post. Aden and Edmund and the boys and I spent Christmas once at Flytterden, that is his house, you know, and of course I was not down for dinner as a rule, but we were but a large family party, and on Christmas Day itself all the older children were allowed down to dinner, and the adults of course were in evening dress, and Sir Cedric wore orders. He looked very diplomatic, certainly.”

    “I see: well, of course, it is he, then,” agreed Henry. “That must have been an exciting Christmas for vou. Fliss!”

    “Well, l suppose it was not too bad.”

    “Was it just you and your brothers?” asked Dimity.

    “Yes. Mamma and Papa had been invited to spend that Christmas with the Duke of York. Aden was very cross, because of Papa’s gambling. And although I think he was invited, he would not go. Lady Rowbotham is very kind. And of course Sir Cedric is stiff, but Aden says he has a kind heart under the starch.”

    The Parkers were by now more or less used to Fliss’s artless way of pouring out whatever was in her mind, so they merely nodded in response to this information, and Henry added: “And your little brothers went too?”

    “Yes, for Sir Cedric’s youngest sons are about their age.”

    “That was very good fun for them, I expect?” she said. smiling at her.

    “I suppose so. Well, they all misbehaved, of course, but Lady Rowbotham would only say it was their holiday, and one could not expect boys to be saints. –But as I was saying, Mr Rowbotham is but a younger son. Though of course, it would be an excellent connection for you. It is a pity that Alfreda has no dowry.”

    “She is so very good and kind and pretty that lack of a dowry could not signify to a man of true feeling!” cried Dimity angrily.

    “But living with very little money is most unpleasant, Dimity.”

    “Oh, be silent, Fliss Tarlington: you are a heartless cat!” cried Dimity, bursting into tears and rushing from the room.

    “It is true!” said Fliss crossly. “Before Aden came home and Papa was gambling terribly it was all horrid!”

    “Yes, I know, Fliss, but I think your mamma and your brother would not like to have it spoken of,” said Henry on a firm note. “And—and even though three posies is a little much, in the one week, possibly Mr Rowbotham will turn out not to have any serious intentions towards Alfreda at all. So—um—perhaps we had best not talk about that either.”

    “But—”

    “And anyway, you can’t count the last one: your mamma herself said it is not unusual for a gentleman to send a lady a posy before a dance.”

    “A gentleman who admires her, Henry!” she cried.

    “Admiration is one thing. A proposal of marriage is something else “

    “But—”

    Henry got up. “I think I’d better go up and calm Dimity down. And I suppose it is nearly time to change into our party dresses.”

    Fliss gave a superior little laugh. “Evening gowns! We are grown up now, Henry!”

    Henry went out, managing to wait until the door was safely closed behind her before muttering: “Are we?”

    Dimity’s tears seldom lasted long and she was discovered in her room, sorting through her sashes, quite recovered. “The paler blue that matches my eyes: and you must wear the deep sapphire, Henry!”

    “Oh, good,” said Henry in a hollow voice.

    Dimity giggled. “Silly! You will look very pretty! Oh, it is so exciting, is it not?”

    Henry sighed. “No. I’m even more nervous than I was before that dreadful dinner party.”

    Dimity considered it. “I’m not nearly as nervous. And an assembly at Almack’s will be so much more exciting than a fusty old dinner party!”

    “Mr T. says it’s the most boring place in London,” recollected Henry.

    “Pooh! He is too old to care for dancing!”

    “Yes. Lucky man,” she noted drily, going out.

    “Where is Aden?” lamented Lady Tarlington, some time later. “He is so disobliging: it would be just like him to ruin our evening!”

    “Could not we go without him. Mamma?” suggested Fliss.

    “Of course we might, silly child! But it is so much more comfortable to be squired by a gentleman!” she snapped.

    Fliss fidgeted. “Do let us go, Mamma, or the doors will be closed against us.”

    “Nonsense, it is hours yet before they— Ah, Taunton,” she said as the butler appeared. “Is Mr Tarlington arrived?”

    “No, my Lady: he has sent a note.”

    Lady Tarlington’s thin bosom heaved; the fine diamonds on it flashed fire. “If he is to let us down after all, it will be beyond everything!”

    “What does he say, Mamma?”

    “He will see us there,” she said grimly. “Taunton, you may have the carriage brought round immediately. –I should have known I could not trust Aden to do anything for the comfort or convenience of his mamma and sister!” she added angrily before the butler was even halfway out of the room.

    The three Miss Parkers stared fixedly at the floor.

    ... “That one,” murmured Mrs Quayle-Sturt with a very faint inclination of her plumed head. “With the yellow curls and the pale blue ribands.”

    The Countess Lieven, striking in black satin slashed and puffed with gold, raised her lorgnette. “Ah.”

    Lady Lavinia Dewesbury, impressive in pale lilac silk slashed with silver-grey—she was a large, fair woman—also looked hard at Lady Tarlington’s party. “Five thousand pounds a year, you said, my dear?”

    “So I am reliably informed,” Mrs Quayle-Sturt affirmed. “I suppose she is pretty enough.”

    “No countenance,” pronounced Lady Lavinia definitively. She was launching her second daughter this Season, and Gwendolyn’s being also a fair damsel may have had something to do with this remark.

    “Well, my dear, the mother was an impossible cit, I believe.”

    “Mais elle est morte?” said the Countess.

    “Oh, yes, Countess. Many years since,” agreed Mrs Quayle-Sturt.

    “Ah.”

    After a moment Lady Lavinia said: “Good Heavens, that is never Wilfred Rowbotham with their party?”

    The three ladies stared. After a moment the Countess emitted something which in a less grand lady one would have said resembled a cackle.

    “It appears to be the more elegant dark young woman whom he affects.” said Lady Lavinia, somewhat limply.

    “Impossible! My dear,” said Mrs Quayle-Sturt, craning her neck avidly: “the papa is but a country parson, and those two girls will have nothing!”

    The Countess’s thin eyebrows rose. “One collects Sir Cedric has not yet heard of this development.” –If he had not, her two companions were aware that he very speedily would.

    “Well,” said Lady Lavinia, “I did not think to see it in my lifetime!”

    “It will not last the Season.” predicted Mrs Quayle-Sturt, not ceasing to crane her neck. “W.R. must marry money.”

    “I would not say must, but it would be injudicious in him not to do so,” pronounced the Countess definitively, snapping her lorgnette shut. “No doubt the Tarlington creature intends the yellow-haired chit for Aden. Dommage.”

    Neither of the other ladies quite dared to ask her what she meant to imply by this, and Mrs Quayle-Sturt soon excused herself and hurried off, no doubt to apprise some other of her acquaintance of the fact of Lady Tarlington’s new house-guest having five thousand pounds a year.

    “Vulgar,” said the Countess cuttingly.

    “Er—well, yes, and Lionel has forbidden me to have her in the house again after the rumour she spread about poor Rockingham—well, my dear, one would not have cared a fig had it had but the slightest foundation in truth, but—!”

    Countess Lieven did not care a fig how many stories were spread about Lady Lavinia’s nephew but she nodded courteously.

    “One meets the creature everywhere!” said Lady Lavinia on a vexed note.

    “Évidemment.”

    “Well, my dear,” she said with a twinkle in her rather protuberant blue eye, “at least it will afford us the amusement of seeing which of those impossible younger sons she sics onto the five thousand a year!”

    The Countess’s eyes also twinkled. “Which? Fifty guineas says it will be both, Lavinia!”

    Sir Lionel Dewesbury had also forbidden Lady Lavinia to gamble with the Countess Lieven, because she always lost: but it was not for this this reason that Lady Lavinia gave a rich chuckle and said: “I shan’t take your bet, my dear, on second thoughts!”

    … “Let it not be me,” moaned Henry as Ensign Claud Quayle-Sturt, beaming all over his unfledged pink face, was seen to be heading their way.

    Dimity shrank back into her hard little chair. “He must! It is your turn!” she hissed.

    “Let Fliss come back quick,” moaned Henry.

    “Ssh!” hissed Dimity with a stifled giggle as the gallant soldier came up, bowed very low to Miss Henrietta, and begged for the honour. As he led his captive off he could be heard saving: “I wonder if you are aware of the siege tactics used at Badajos, Miss Henrietta? Now, some maintain that there is nothing to a siege but to dig in at the foot of the enemy’s wall and wait, but if we consult the lessons of history it is readily apparent—”

    “Poor Henry!” said Dimity with true feeling.

    “Ssh, my love,” said Miss Parker weakly.

    “Alfreda, he is impossible! He talked throughout our dance of some battle in the Americas of which I had never heard; and you would not think that in a country dance anyone could! But every time we came together in the figures he would take up where he had left off!”

    Alfreda’s soft lapis eyes twinkled. “How could you tell it was where he left off?”

    Dimity gave an explosive giggle and clapped her hand -over her mouth.

    Smiling, Alfreda said: “I’m sorry, my dear, I shouldn’t make you laugh in the middle of an assembly.”

    Dimity took her hand away, smiling, but said: “Alfreda, it is the dullest thing!”

    “It is not very exciting, to be sure,” she admitted, swallowing a sigh.

    “And I’m so very hungry, I did not eat very much dinner, and Fliss says the refreshments will be terrible, we shall be lucky to get as much as a glass of ratafia or orgeat and a piece of stale cake!”

    “Mm, I had heard they are notoriously bad.” Alfreda patted her hand. “When we return home I shall ring for something to eat. I am sure Henry will be hungry, too. And Fliss did not eat very much dinner, either.”

    “Thank you, Alfreda!” said Dimity with huge relief. “—Who is that man that Fliss is dancing with?”

    “A Mr Potter.”

    Dimity gulped.

    “Er—well, yes, I’m afraid it is the one to whom Fliss refers as ‘Pooter’ Potter,” she said limply. “I think they know the family.”

    “I suppose one cannot refuse a gentleman a dance,” she said without hope.

    “I fear it is not the done thing.”

    “No,” said Dimity, sighing.

    The dance finished. Mr Pooter Potter returned Fliss to her seat and duly solicited Dimity’s hand. Ensign Claud Quayle-Sturt returned Henry and solicited Fliss’s. His brother George surfaced from nowhere and solicited Henry’s.

     Left alone by the wall, Miss Parker sagged in her seat: there were moments in a young lady’s life, she reflected, watching her young relatives going down the dance, when it was better to be a wallflower!

    ... Mrs Quayle-Sturt stiffened. “That is never Harpingdon!” she hissed.

    “I am sure I do not know who else it might be,” returned Lady Lavinia Dewesbury, not without malice: she was not best pleased to have been rejoined by the persistent Mrs Quayle-Sturt.

    “But he does not dance!”

    “I have seen him dance, but he is not generally seen at Almack’s,” returned Lady Lavinia, conscious of an unworthy hope that Lord Harpingdon’s eye would alight on her own Gwendolyn, at the moment suffering the agony of going down the dance with Mr Potter.

    “Well, exactly!” Mrs Quayle-Sturt’s eyes remained avidly fixed on Lord Harpingdon, even though she was not herself bringing a daughter out this year.

    “That is Aden Tarlington with him,” said Lady Lavinia. “I expect they came together.”

    Mrs Quayle-Sturt sniffed. “Very possibly.”

    “The eldest girl Parker strikes me as amiable and ladylike, if she has not five thousand pounds a year,” said Lady Lavinia with a gleam in her eye which the avid Mrs Quayle-Sturt missed.

    “Oh, I dare say,” she said impatiently.

    “Though I have not spoken to her,” murmured her Ladyship.

    “No... Oh!” she said in some surprize. Lady Lavinia Dewesbury was a very grand lady indeed—the nephew whom she had mentioned earlier in fact being the present Marquis of Rockingham and she herself the sister of the previous marquis—and Mrs Quayle-Sturt, though she would not have admitted it to save her life, was in fact in some awe of her. “Would you care for an introduction, my dear? I did warn you, there is no money in that direction—”

    “Yes. But in the unlikely event of Quentin’s taking an interest in a young woman who appears modest and well-behaved,” said Captain Quentin Dewesbury’s mother, again with that gleam in her eye, “I do not think such a matter is likely to worry his papa.”

    “No,” agreed Mrs Quayle-Sturt in an annoyed voice. Not only was Lady Lavinia, of course, a Hammond: the Dewesburys were an extremely wealthy family.

    Alfreda was again alone: the girls were all dancing the country dance, and although Mr Rowbotham had invited her, she had refused, for, Lady Tarlington-having deserted them some time since in order to chat with her own friends, there was no-one else to act as chaperone. And besides, she had a feeling she ought not to encourage Mr Rowbotham too much, amiable and pleasant though he undoubtedly was. For she had a strong conviction that she could not care for him any more than she could for Mr T. She rose hurriedly, very flustered, as it dawned that the two grand ladies were approaching herself.

    Mrs Quayle-Sturt was immensely gracious. Miss Parker felt quite bewildered, for they had now encountered the avid lady at several small gatherings, at which Dimity and Fliss had been honoured with favourable notice but she and Henry had been virtually ignored. She could not understand why this Lady Lavinia Dewesbury should wish for an introduction, but curtseyed properly and invited the ladies to be seated. Lady Lavinia immediately took the place next hers and engaged her in polite conversation. Miss Parker, though still bewildered, responded politely.

    Lady Lavinia had asked for the introduction for two reasons: firstly, to annoy Mrs Quayle-Sturt, and secondly, to be in a strategic position should Aden Tarlington lead his friend Harpingdon over to his connections. After some conversation with Miss Parker she confirmed her impression that she was a young woman of propriety and, it appeared, excellent sense. The dance now ending and her daughter rejoining her, she effected introductions between the young women.

    Gwendolyn Dewesbury was a fair young woman of angelic appearance. The soft curls were a very light blonde, the face was oval and sweet and just flushed with a delicious pink, the mouth was sweetly bowed and the eyes were large, pale blue, and completely innocent. Her mother, by no means a stupid woman, was grimly aware that this angelic appearance almost entirely belied her. Gwendolyn was what could fairly have been called an imp. Lady Lavinia was perfectly well aware who it was that was responsible, to name no other crimes, for having painted the white parts of Quentin’s springer spaniel with a blue-bag, trimmed the end of her sister Susan’s Persian cat’s tail neatly into a cuboid configuration, which had never grown out, and artistically filed through the leg of the small table in the yellow salon so that it collapsed spectacularly under the weight of a full tea service when her mamma was entertaining guests. She was not aware, fortunately for the miscreant, that it was also Gwendolyn’s experiments with a screwdriver which had brought the entire window drapings in her Grandmamma Dewesbury’s front parlour crashing to the floor, and not the gradual weakening of the structure over time.

    It had been grimly impressed upon Gwendolyn that if she did not behave with absolute propriety in Society, her Season would come to an abrupt end: and as Gwendolyn did not wish to be relegated to boring Bath and Grandmamma Dewesbury’s little house, she was behaving with great propriety. So far.

    She was pleased to make a new acquaintance and said unaffectedly, having exchanged greetings with Miss Parker: “Is it not the stuffiest thing? But Almack’s is ever so, they tell me! Do you ride, Miss Parker? I so like a morning ride, but London seems to be full of prunes-and-prisms Misses, and I have found no-one to accompany me!”

    “I do ride, but I have no horse in London,” said Alfreda weakly. She could imagine the glossy creatures Miss Dewesbury must be accustomed to perch on: very different from Papa’s old Brownie and the fat ponies at home!

    “Oh, but that is no problem: Papa has a stableful of horses, eating their heads off! Mamma, would it not be just the very thing? Miss Parker has no horse in London, so we may mount her, do you not think?”

    “Most certainly, my dear; if you would care for it, Miss Parker,” smiled Lady Lavinia graciously, trying not to look in the direction of Aden Tarlington: dratted man! Would he never lead Lord Harpingdon this way?

    Miss Parker flushed up a little but said composedly: “Much though I should care for the treat, Lady Lavinia. I fear I must decline: I am really in London to chaperon my sister and cousins, and I could not desert them of a morning.”

    “But may not Lady Tarlington chaperon them?” said Gwendolyn in surprize. Her own mamma was always up before she was. And in fact had decreed that after an evening party Gwendolyn should breakfast quietly in her room. –This was not wholly a charitable act, it was also partly because Lady Lavinia wished to be free to discuss with Sir Lionel the personalities and events of the evening; nevertheless it was, in the eyes of a Miss newly freed from the schoolroom, a terrific concession.

    Lady Lavinia did not fail to interpret correctly Miss Parker’s blush at this artless remark, nor to appreciate her quiet response that in the mornings it was generally she who looked to the girls; and silently reflected again that it was a great pity about the lack of fortune.

    The younger Miss Parkers coming up at that moment with glasses of orgeat which their escorts had kindly procured for them, introductions were promptly effected. Gwendolyn immediately invited the other girls to ride also. Since Mr George Quayle-Sturt. who had been inflicting himself upon Fliss, Ensign Claud, who had fallen to Dimity’s lot, and even the Ensign’s friend Lieutenant Wheldon, who was almost completely inarticulate and so had afforded Henry a certain respite during their dance, all eagerly seconded the suggestion. Lady Lavinia now saw Gwendolyn’s quiet morning rapidly developing into an undesirable romp. However, Ensign Claud then marginally improved the situation by admitting regretfully that he and his friend had early morning duty and so would be unable to make it, Lieutenant Wheldon nodding convulsively meanwhile.

    “Pray, Mamma!” urged Gwendolyn.

    “George, you may escort the young ladies,” prompted Mrs Quayle-Sturt.

    Mr George jumped, and agreed eagerly.

    Lady Lavinia did not wish for a connection in that direction: there was nothing wrong with the family and the eldest son was certainly all that was agreeable, if the late Mr Quayle-Sturt had been nothing very much—though his father had been a most gallant soldier indeed; but— Well, one would never be free of the woman! And what on earth Lionel would say—! Lady Lavinia was not in the habit of much consulting her husband’s wishes or opinion but over the years he had become a convenient excuse not only to others, but also to herself, for not doing things she did not wish to.

    “I think perhaps Quentin may accompany you, also, my dears,” she decided, smiling.

    Gwendolyn gulped. “Mamma, he may not wish to.”

    “Of course he will wish to, silly child!” said Lady Lavinia lightly.—Stout-hearted though she was, Gwendolyn winced: Lady Lavinia’s lightness was something terrible.—“Now, another measure is striking up, so I think perhaps, as this is a dance, you know,”—also terribly light, not to say verging on the arch—“you young people must dance. But perhaps not together, this time, we do not wish to be remarked, do we?”

    “Miss Dewesbury has not yet honoured me,” said Mr George under his mamma’s steely eye. Lieutenant Wheldon gulped, and managed to bow before Fliss.

    Gwendolyn and Fliss were duly led off, lambs to the slaughter.

    “And I am sure your mamma will find you a suitable young lady, Mr Quayle-Sturt,” said Lady Lavinia on a firm note to the gallant Ensign.

    Mrs Quayle-Sturt, perforce, carried her inept offspring off and deposited him at the feet of a blushing young lady.

    That left Lady Lavinia and the Miss Parkers; but not for long: Mr Rowbotham came up with Captain Lord Rupert Narrowmine. The latter bowed before Dimity, and Mr Rowbotham, flushing somewhat under Lady Lavinia’s sardonic eye, cast only a longing look at Miss Parker, and very properly requested the honour of Henry, with whom he had not danced so far.

    That left Lady Lavinia and Miss Parker.

    Her Ladyship immediately said: “I think the Narrowmines are connections, Miss Parker?”

    Alfreda swallowed. “Well, yes, although we do not really know them, Lady Lavinia. Lady Blefford is a distant cousin of my Papa’s.”

    “Yes, of course; I had forgot for the moment that she and Lady Tarlington are cousins. And which other members of the family have you met, besides Lord Rupert?”

    “As I say, we do not really know them at all, but Lord Rupert has introduced us to his sister, Lady Mary. I—I am afraid I cannot remember her married name, Lady Lavinia.”

    Lady Lavinia smiled graciously. “Lady Mary Vane, Miss Parker. A pleasant-mannered young woman.”

    “Yes, I liked her very much. Would her husband be a connexion of a Mr Tobias Vane, then?”

    Lady Lavinia laughed a little, “Oh, my dear, so you have met him already! Oh, of course: he is a distant connexion of the Tarlingtons, is he not? Dear, oh dear! Yes, it is the same family. And were you placed beside him at dinner, Miss Parker?”

    Miss Parker smiled in answer to the quizzical gleam in her Ladyship’s eye and said: “No, but I did chat with him later. He knows an immense amount about tea.”

    “Does he not?” she agreed, twinkling very much. “But it is not every young woman he would favour with the facts: you are to be congratulated on having so successfully drawn him out, Miss Parker!”

    “Drawn whom out, for the Lord’s sake?” drawled a masculine voice. “Good evening, Cousin Alfreda: finding it tedious, are you? –How are you, Lady Lavinia?” Aden Tarlington gave a careless bow.

    “I am well, thank you, Mr Tarlington, and you may kiss my hand, you abominable scapegrace. I noted your poor mamma was not favoured with your escort this evening.”

    Mr Tarlington bowed over Lady Lavinia’s hand, grinning. “I was unavoidably detained, ma’am. And how does Sir Lionel? I note he does not favour you with his escort this evening.”

    Lady Lavinia gave a deep chuckle, but said: “You know he avoids Almack’s. Well, Harpingdon! How pleasant to see you in town!”

    Lord Harpingdon in his turn bowed over her Ladyship’s hand and expressed the hope she was well.

    “I am always well: and how are those dear little twins?”

    He flushed up just very slightly: Alfreda would not have noticed, had she not known his sad story; and replied: “Charlotte and Veronica are very well indeed, thank you, Lady Lavinia. The country air agrees with them.”

    “Of course; children should not be immured in a grimy, stuffy city. You would agree, I am sure. Miss Parker: you have little brothers and sisters, do you not?”

    “Why, yes,” said Miss Parker, smiling.

    “You do not know Lord Harpingdon, I think? He is a connection of yours, of course.”

    Christian Alexander Peter Narrowmine, Viscount Harpingdon, had some time since got out of the habit of considering himself an eligible parti—though he was not so naïve as to suppose the London hostesses had done the same. It was quite true that he was not normally seen at Almack’s. He had dined with Aden because Aden had invited him on hearing that his previous dinner engagement had been cancelled, and had been very cross with his host on Aden’s revealing later in the evening that he really should have been escorting his mamma and her party to the Marriage Mart. He had forthwith insisted they depart thither. This had necessitated his first going home to change his black pantaloons for satin knee-breeches, which was why they had arrived so late. Harpy was aware that had he not insisted on accompanying him, Aden would probably not have bothered to go at all. He smiled and bowed to Alfreda, noting with some approval the fact that she neither simpered nor giggled but greeted him with quiet composure.

    “Thought you had met,” said Mr Tarlington carelessly. “Made sure I had introduced him.”

    “No, it was Henrietta to whom you introduced Lord Harpingdon, sir,” replied Alfreda without apparent disturbance.

    “Oh, aye: knew it was one of you.”

    “And is your sister here this evening, Miss Parker?” asked Lord Harpingdon politely.

    “Out of course. The pack of ’em are.” said Mr Tarlington.

    “Certainly: my sister, my cousin Miss Dimity Parker, and Mr Tarlington’s sister Felicity are all here: they are all dancing, sir,” said Miss Parker, smiling at Lord Harpingdon.

    “Why the Devil aren’t you dancing?” demanded Mr Tarlington. “Have all the fellows gone blind, or what? –Handsome girl, ain’t she, Harpy?”

    Lord Harpingdon felt rather cross with him: he was, of course, needling the poor young woman in order to see if he could disturb her composure. It was really too bad—and in front of a high stickler like Lady Lavinia Dewesbury, too!

    Alfreda, however, responded calmly: “It is very good in you to say so, Mr Tarlington.”

    “If you had not arrived so late, you would have observed that Miss Parker is chaperoning her sister and yours, my dear Tarlington,” noted Lady Lavinia majestically.

    “So Mamma has shoved it onto you, has she, Cousin?”

    “Cousin Tarlington, you must be aware that I am in London for the purpose of assisting your mamma to look to the girls,” said Alfreda.

    Lord Harpingdon observed that although she spoke with composure her cheeks had flushed; he said kindly: “But would that preclude your dancing with me, Miss Parker? Perhaps not this one, as the sets are made up, but the next, provided your charges are taken off your hands?”

    Alfreda flushed even more deeply and said: “Well—”

    “There could be no objection, my dear Miss Parker,” said Lady Lavinia kindly.

    “There you are: the seal of approval,” noted Mr Tarlington sardonically.

    There was nothing left for Alfreda to say save: “Thank you very much, Lord Harpingdon, I should like to.”

    “Thought you was promised to Miss Henrietta?” drawled Mr Tarlington.

   Harpingdon gave him an annoyed look. “That was for several days hence. –Miss Parker, I must explain that I was under the impression that your party would be visiting Almack’s for the first time some days hence. I had solicited Miss Henrietta’s hand for the first dance: I hope that she is not thinking too badly of me.

    “No, indeed, sir. We had not originally intended to come this evening, but our intended hostess—”

    “Mrs Aloysius Vane. Feverish cold,” said Mr Tarlington.

    “I see,” said Lord Harpingdon, smiling at Miss Parker. “I also was engaged to dine with the Vanes this evening—they are connections, through my sister Mary.”

    “Yes, so Lady Lavinia was saying,” agreed Miss Parker.

    Lady Lavinia nodded and smiled and asked Lord Harpingdon firmly how his mamma was going on, and the conversation became general. As much as any conversation could with Aden Tarlington present: the man was like a—a wasp, or a gadfly! thought Lady Lavinia crossly.

    The young gentlemen returning the young ladies to their chaperones after the dance, everyone was duly introduced. Lord Harpingdon did not appear overcome by Gwendolyn’s fair beauty and Gwendolyn did not appear overcome by his slim, quietly elegant person and pleasant smile, but Lady Lavinia was not deterred. She was not unaware that if Harpingdon danced a first dance, he would then feel himself obliged to ask other young ladies. So as it was due to the gadfly’s stinging that he had asked Miss Parker at all, perhaps it was not entirely a bad thing that Mr Tarlington was present, after all!

    It was another country dance and since the figures necessarily separated them a good deal Lord Harpingdon and Alfreda did not exchange anything but commonplaces. Nevertheless Christian Narrowmine found he was unexpectedly pleased by her, and Alfreda found him a very pleasant gentleman indeed. Though it was true that knowing his sad story had predisposed her in his favour. as she herself recognized.

    The next dance was a waltz and Lord Harpingdon’s striking grey eyes twinkled very much as he bowed over Henry’s hand and said: “Now, I have not forgotten what I said to you, Miss Henrietta, and if Miss Parker will entrust you to my care, we shall go and speak to Countess Lieven directly.”

    This was rather in the tone of a much older man, which Harpy was, of course, to the nineteen-year-old, unsophisticated Henry. She gave one of her unaffected grins and said: “Well, if you are sure the daring enterprise will not fail before it is but barely undertaken, Lord Harpingdon?”

    He gave a startled little laugh. “Why, no! I think I can almost guarantee it! –With your permission, then, Miss Parker?” Alfreda nodded, smiling, and he led Henry away.

    They appeared to be chatting animatedly as they went: Alfreda experienced a very odd sensation somewhere in the middle of her chest. If Henry was very young, she was not too young, and she was undeniably very pretty, even though she still believed herself to have no interest in gentlemen. And Lord Harpingdon was a—a very pleasant gentleman...

    Alfreda gave herself a mental shake and refused very firmly Aden Tarlington’s drawling offer to dance the waltz with her.

    “But our steps matched so perfectly when we practised!” he said.

    In spite of the gadfly manner, Lady Lavinia would not have been entirely averse to Gwendolyn’s capturing Aden Tarlington’s fortune; and, not being quite yet immune herself, she did recognize that the dratted man was by no means unattractive; she concealed her irritation that it was not her daughter whom he had solicited for the waltz and said firmly: “Naturally Miss Parker will not dance when her young charges are sitting by the wall: I am surprized at you, Tarlington.”

    Aden raised his eyebrows very high and murmured: “Are you? Er—look, if I go and round up a handful of eligibles and tow ’em over here with Lady Sefton or someone to make it acceptable, then may I dance with my cousin?”

    Lady Lavinia did not wish to refuse Gwendolyn the chance to dance the waltz at Almack’s—though she could not envisage that Aden Tarlington’s definition of eligibles would march with her own—so she gave gracious permission.

    Aden went off, grinning, to return in very short order with the good-natured Lady Sefton, his friend Wilfred Rowbotham, Wilfred’s younger brother, Mr Shirley Rowbotham, who was a gentleman newly come upon the town fresh from Oxford triumphs, and Mr Shirley’s friend, Lucius Valentine, known to all the Oxford men as “Val”. And not unknown to the Oxford Watch, either.

    Mr Shirley’s and Mr Valentine’s eyes duly started from their heads at the sight of Dimity’s and Fliss’s golden prettiness. The two girls had been very much over-awed by Gwendolyn’s formidable mamma and were exceeding glad to be solicited by two personable young men and whirled away. In especial as they had not thought Lady Lavinia would ever let them.

    Lady Lavinia had to resign herself to seeing Gwendolyn twirl off with Mr Rowbotham: though as he was undeniably the most graceful dancer in the room she could not but reflect that at least it was showing her daughter to her best advantage.

    “The Parkers seem a pleasant family, Lavinia,” ventured Lady Sefton, smiling. “And so handsome, do you not think?”

    “Yes. The dark sisters are lovely,” admitted Lady Lavinia.

    “Indeed. And the pretty little cousin—very taking! And did you remark how amazingly alike those two younger girls are, though one is so dark and one so golden? I think we may expect them to take the town by storm, this Season!” she said with her pleasant laugh.

    Lady Lavinia looked somewhat startled. “Do you think so?” She hesitated and then added: “Mrs Quayle-Sturt informs me—though I have no notion of how reliable her information may be—that the dark Parker girls are portionless,”

    “Yes, and that the pretty yellow-haired one has five thousand pounds a year!” agreed Lady Sefton.

    Lady Lavinia laughed a little, but nodded.

    “Did not the Miss Gunnings take the town by storm although they were portionless?” added Lady Sefton.

    Lady Lavinia replied in some astonishment: “My dear Maria: that was a very long time ago!”

    “True: but I think human nature has not changed so very much since?” said Lady Sefton, her eyes upon Harpingdon and Miss Henrietta.

    Lady Lavinia followed her gaze with a startled look, but after a moment said: “Well, if tonight’s gathering of milk-and-water Misses is an example of what this Season has to offer, I think you very probably may be right!”

    On the dance floor Henry had very kindly warned Lord Harpingdon to watch his toes. The Viscount had returned a gallant answer but it was not very long at all before he perceived the warning had not been an empty one.

    “I’m sorry,” said Henry with a sigh. “I have practised every day for over a week, now, but I fear I shall never master the waltz. Would it be ineligible if we sat down?”

    Since he was about twice her age Harpy did not feel it would be all that ineligible, but it was not generally done to leave the floor at Almack’s; so he said: “I think Countess Lieven might be disappointed, as it was she who approved our dance. Possibly if you bear in mind that I am actually very brave and in addition have toes of steel?”

    Henry gave a choke of laughter but said: “I’m afraid you will need them! Um—I know it isn’t done, Lord Harpingdon, but you are almost a cousin, after all, so if you wouldn’t mind counting, it would help me—ooh, sorry! –Help me to avoid your feet!”

    Harpy gave his pleasant laugh and obligingly counted for her.

    … “Thank God you can do it,” said Mr Tarlington to his partner.

    “I will return that sentiment, sir,” replied Miss Parker sedately.

    Aden gave a startled laugh, and held her rather tighter. “Well! There is more to you than meets the eve, ain’t there? Only that ain’t bad, either! –So your toes have suffered, too, in their time, have they?!

    “Certainly. And it is one thing to have a young lady land upon your toes, but let me tell you, it is very different to have a fourteen-stone gentleman!”

    “Eh?”

    Laughing, Alfreda said: “Well, I should not tell tales out of school, and he is the great man of our little country district, and it was so kind of him to favour me with a waltz: but I was so bruised after it!”

    “My poor girl, I should imagine you were!”

    She smiled, but said: “Mr Tarlington, I really feel you should not address me as your poor girl.”

    “Rubbish, nobody but us to hear it. Can’t be doing with prunes and prisms. Deadly.”

    Alfreda smiled a little but did not reply.

    … Mrs Quayle-Sturt’s eyes had become rivetted to the dance floor. She gave a little titter. Immediately alerted, Lady Tarlington looked round. Mrs Quayle-Sturt inclined her head in the direction of the portionless Miss Henrietta Parker dancing with the heir to an earldom. “I really must congratulate you on your young guests, my dear. So pretty—and so enterprising, too!”

    Lady Tarlington’s thin cheeks reddened under the discreet maquillage—Mrs Quayle-Sturt not failing to confirm that although it was so artfully done, she did paint—and said with an airy toss of the head that did not deceive her friend for an instant: “Nonsense, my dear! Harpingdon is my cousin’s son!”

    “Oh, quite! It is quite understandable, of course. –And the older sister is so very handsome, too!”

    Only at this point did Lady Tarlington become aware that Aden was disporting himself on the dance floor with the penniless Alfreda. She took a deep breath. “I expect Aden took pity on her.”

    “Oh, certainly. Just as Harpingdon did earlier, of course.”

    “What?” said Lady Tarlington unguardedly.

    Mrs Quayle-Sturt had not been unaware that Lady Lavinia had in effect dismissed her. She had watched the subsequent proceedings in that group with angry, jealous eves. Now she said on a malicious note: “Did you not remark it? It was at Lavinia Dewesbury’s prompting, I think.”

    Lady Tarlington’s jaw sagged. “I hardly know her!” she gasped.

    “No. Well, the Hammonds, you know—!” returned Mrs Quayle-Sturt with a little titter.

    Flushing angrily at the implication that a Gratton-Gordon was not as good as a Hammond, Lady Tarlington said grimly: “Harpingdon is known in the family, and indeed, by all his close acquaintance—though of course you will not be aware of that, my dear—for his extreme good nature. And now, if you will excuse me, I really should get back to my chicks!”

    Mrs Quayle-Sturt watched in considerable amusement as her Ladyship’s bronze and gold stripes beat a rapid retreat in the direction of Lady Lavinia’s lilac and silver.

    In the carriage going home Lady Tarlington said to Alfreda: “My dear, of course it is not ineligible that you should dance a little, when the other girls are on the floor, for you are not quite on the shelf, yet. But I should not like to think you were putting  yourself forward.”

    “Oh, pooh, Mamma: if you are implying she shouldn’t have danced with Harpy just because he is to be an earl, that is too silly, for he is positively an old man, and our cousin to boot!” cried Fliss.

    Dimity and Henry stared a little at Fliss’ springing to Alfreda’s defence, but could not but approve the sentiment.

    Alfreda was very flushed: she said in a low voice: “I beg your pardon, Lady Tarlington. Of course, had I known you did not wish for it, I would not have danced. But Lord Harpingdon was so very kind as to ask, and—and Lady Lavinia Dewesbury said there could be no objection.”

    “Of course not, my dear: Lady Lavinia must know what is right,” said Lady Tarlington on an annoyed note.

    “Mamma, Alfreda danced but three dances the entire night!” cried Fliss crossly. “And if you wish to know, several gentlemen commented favourably to me on her appearance and comportment and asked who she was!”

    This did not make Lady Tarlington feel better, and she could not forbear to wonder whether the enquiries had come before or after Alfreda had made herself particular by dancing with Aden and Harpingdon. “Of course. We all know our dear Alfreda’s worth,” she said on a firm note. “But let us not forget that Alfreda—and you too, my dear Henrietta—will have no portion. It seems heartless to say so, but I would hate for you to be under any misapprehension: gentlemen may pay one favourable attentions at dances, but they will not look for a wife from an impoverished country vicarage; such is the way of the world.”

    There was a short silence.

    “Your Ladyship does very right to remind us,” said Alfreda colourlessly.

    Dimity took a deep breath. “One lady said to me that Henry was the prettiest girl there! And I do not believe that nice gentlemen are interested only in horrid portions!”

    “That will do, Dimity,” said Miss Parker in a hard voice that really was most unlike her. “And you may beg Lady Tarlington’s pardon for impertinence.”

    “I beg your pardon, Lady Tarlington,” said Dimity sulkily.

    “That is all right, my dear: it is a cruel lesson. to learn, is it not? But all little girls must grow up some time!” she said with a little tinkle of unkind laughter.

    “Are you implying, Lady Tarlington,” asked Henry with interest—Alfreda’s heart, which had sunk pretty low already, at this descended into her shoes—“that gentlemen offer to dance with one only for one’s looks? I can readily see that it may be so; but if it is so, why is Almack’s called the Marriage Mart in polite society?”

    For an instant the atmosphere in the carriage trembled with silence. Then Fliss gave a shriek of laughter.

    “Felicity, that will do!” snapped her mamma. “I shall overlook that remark, Henrietta: you are doubtless over-tired.”

    “Henrietta, apologize at once,” said Alfreda in a trembling voice.

    “I beg your pardon, Lady Tarlington,” said Henry in exactly the tone Dimity had earlier used.

    “And Dimity, kindly sit up straight,” added Miss Parker grimly.

    Dimity removed her hand from her face and sat up straight, and the remainder of the short journey was accomplished in silence.

    In the carriage going home Mrs Quayle-Sturt said on an annoyed note: “Why on earth did you allow yourself to be cut out with the nabob’s heiress like that, George? And as for you, Claud—!”

    “Mamma, that ain’t fair: she gave me two dances, and you have said I know not how many times that it ain’t the done thing to ask for more!” objected Mr George Quayle-Sturt.

    “Yes, and it was you yourself who dragged me off and made me dance with that girl with the buck teeth and that dim one with the spots!” said Ensign Claud, pouting horribly and looking very far from military.

    “That will do, thank you!”

    Mr George had been pondering it deeply and, though he had been pretty much of that mind all along, had come to the definite conclusion that deep sapphire eyes, shiny black lashes and riotous black curls had it all over yaller hair and a silly laugh; he said sulkily: “In any case Miss Dimity is not a patch on her cousin. Miss Henrietta is the prettiest thing I ever set eyes on.”

    “She will not have a penny!” shouted Mrs Quayle-Sturt, turning alarmingly purple. In the dim light in the carriage her sons could not quite see this tint, but then, they did not need to.

    “So what, money ain’t everything,” said Mr George, pouting as horribly as his brother.

    “You are an idiot, George,” said Mrs Quayle-Sturt through her teeth.

    “Besides, Miss Dimity is the prettier. She’s like, um... a Dresden shepherdess!” produced the Ensign brilliantly.

    “Exactly,” said his mother grimly. “I have ascertained they are to be present at the Snodgrass ball. and l desire to see you both dancing with Miss Dimity. Both, George, do you hear?”

    “Yes, Mamma. –Only I bet Harley would say l do not have to!” he burst out.

    “Harley,” said Harley Quayle-Sturt’s mamma grimly, “is not here. And he, may I remind you, has the oldest son’s portion.”

    “It ain’t fair!” burst out Mr George.

    “Very well, George, you have the choice: you may take that post at the Foreign Office, or you may make yourself agreeable to Miss Dimity Parker or Miss Tarlington. Or failing that, there are the Claveringham girls: I am sure any one of them would look favourably upon you with a little effort on your part.”

    Mr George gulped.

    “Mamma,” said the gallant Ensign uncomfortably, “um... well, the Claveringhams, y’know!”

    “What about them?” she retorted in an alarmingly grim voice.

    “They is above our touch, that is what!” burst out Mr George.

    His mamma received this remark in the way, as the gallant Ensign did not fail later to point out to his sibling, that anyone but a complete gudgeon would have supposed she would.

    In the carriage going home Mr Shirley Rowbotham, who affected to despise such sybaritic refinements but had not refused the ride when Wilfred had offered it, sighed deeply and said: “Well, that is something like, eh? Twin stars!”

    “Eh?” said Mr “Val” Valentine.

    “Poetry, Val,” explained Wilfred kindly,

    “It is an overcast night, thought,” he objected.

    Wilfred Rowbotham choked.

    “Not the night, y’fool!” said Mr Shirley vigorously. “I say, it is no wonder the fellow came down without his degree!” he added by the by to his brother. “—No, Val: the Parkers.”

    After a moment Mr Valentine pointed out: “Well, if we are talkin’ of fools! Because by my count, there was three of ’em, and that ain’t twins!”

    “Triplets,” noted Wilfred. “Triplet stars.”

    “Oh, very witty, Wilf!” shouted Val.

    “Aye,” agreed Shirley. “Considering you could not take your eyes off Miss Parker, and the whole of damned Society knows you have been making a cake of yourself bringing her posies!”

    “Does the whole of damned Society know?” asked Val in surprize. “Thought it was just us.”

    “Rupert Narrowmine was telling it all over as the greatest joke of the century,” replied Wilfred’s brother with satisfaction.

    “He don’t fancy any of ’em, out of course!” returned Val with a laugh.

    “Hard to tell,” said Shirley, rubbing his nose.

    “Eh?” he gasped.

    “No, no, y’fool: hard to tell which of ’em he fancies!”

    “Oh, see what you mean.”

    “Yes,” agreed Wilfred. “—Which one was it you fancy, again, Shirley?”

    Mr Shirley glared.

    “Both!” choked Val. “Twin strings to his bow!”

    “Don’t think Ceddie would approve,” noted Wilfred, shaking head. “Not the done thing. Original thought, mind you. Though I believe the Musselmen may have as many as four wive—”

    Mr Shirley at this point falling upon him bodily, the subject was allowed to lapse.

    Later, however, when Val, who was staying with the brothers in Wilfred’s commodious set of rooms, had taken himself off to his bed yawning horribly, Shirley noted uneasily: “I say, old fellow?”

    Wilfred was sipping a tot of brandy. “Mm?”

    “Er—well, I’m sorry if I was out of line earlier,” he said awkwardly. Wilfred goggled at him. “I mean.” be said, flushing: “Miss Parker is a fine woman, of course. And—and of course if you admire her—um— Well, Mamma would be pleased, I know.”

    “Er—mm. Well, you was not out of line and you may half-strangle me in my carriage any time you like!”

    Grinning, Mr Shirley said: “I shall! Um, it’s just... Er, well Tarlington and Harpingdon both seemed épris in that direction, dear old boy, um—well, you know. Of course it’s all in the luck of the draw—um—no, don’t mean that. Lap of the gods, is what I mean! Only, um…”

     Mr Rowbotham had gone rather white. “You mean she may prefer Aden’s fortune or Harpy’s title to anything I can offer.”

    “Well, only saying, do not get your hopes up too far, Wilf!”

    “Miss Parker is neither worldly nor avaricious,” he said grimly.

    Mr Shirley blinked. “Uh—no. ’Course not, dear old fellow!”

    Mr Rowbotham got up abruptly and went out.

    “Damn!” said the accomplished Oxford man. “I made a right mull of that!”

    In the carriage going home Aden Tarlington stretched out his long legs and groaned. “I trust you were not bored quite to death tonight, Harpy?”

    “Not at all,” said Lord Harpingdon with a smile in his voice.

    Captain Lord Rupert Narrowmine had tacked himself onto their party—possibly in the hope, though where he had it from was anyone’s guess, of being taken to White’s. “Was pretty dull, was it not? Well, apart from the spectacle of poor old Wilf makin’ a cake of himself over Miss Parker, of course!”

    There was a little pause.

    “I do not see anything particularly amusing in that, Rupert,” said Lord Harpingdon steadily.

    Lord Rupert shifted uneasily. “Oh—well—not like Wilf, that is all!”

    Nobody replied.

    “Um—Miss Parker’s awful pretty, out of course!”

    “Rubbish,” said Mr Tarlington, yawning.

    “What? Out of course she is, Aden! And you appeared fairly struck, yourself!”

    “If you can cease interrupting for two seconds, Rupert,” said Mr Tarlington, yawning again, “then possibly I may be able to finish. She is not pretty, she is beautiful. Most especially when her face is in repose.”

    “Um—er—well, certainly,” muttered the gallant Captain, thoroughly taken aback.

    Lord Harpingdon found his fists had clenched. He said in a voice he did not recognize as his own: “So are you serious in that direction. Aden?”

    Aden yawned once more. “No. Though if Mamma forces me into offering for one of ’em, dare say I should pick her. Thoroughly admirable woman. Has Taunton on her side already, what’s more.”

    There was a moment’s silence, during which the Narrowmine brothers began to look very annoyed, if for rather different reasons.

    Then Rupert pointed out: “Taunton ain’t your butler, old boy, he’s your mamma’s!”

    “True,” he drawled.

    No-one replied.

    After a moment Lord Rupert revealed: “Papa has been naggin’ us on the topic again. Thinks Harpy ought to offer for the eldest Claveringham girl.”

    “Er—you mean the second, I think,” said Mr Tarlington.

    “No. Lady Jane. Must be thirty if she’s a day. Been on the shelf for years.”

    “I have told Papa I will not marry where my heart is not engaged,” said Lord Harpingdon shortly.

    “Didn’t listen, of course, never does,” Lord Rupert reported mournfully. “Well, you have seen the pick of this Season’s débutantes tonight, Harpy, dear old boy: was there any possibles?”

    “It is not a matter for jest, Rupert,” said his brother tiredly.

    “I was not jesting!” he cried, very injured.

    “No, I don’t think he was,” murmured his cousin. “Sad, is it not?”

    Harpy smiled a little. “Mm. –Ah, we are stopping, we may throw him out.”

    “Where the Hell are we?” said Lord Rupert, as the carriage did, indeed, come to a halt.

    “Blefford House. Get out,” said Mr Tarlington brutally.

    “What? But I thought we was goin’ on to White’s!”

    “No.”

    “Well, I tell you what, I shall come and stay with you, Harpy, since you is up in town!”

    “Not tonight, however,” noted Mr Tarlington, opening the carriage door. “Out.”

    “Yes, come and stay with me, dear old fellow,” said Lord Harpingdon, smiling at him. “Move your things in tomorrow.”

    Lord Rupert thanked him grudgingly, and got out.

    “Well, now: White’s?” said Mr Tarlington cheerfully as they set off again.

    “No!” said Harpy with a chuckle. Poor Rupert would never get over it!”

    “Never mind him.”

    “No, I really don’t feel like it in any case, thanks, old chap.”

    “Very well, then.”

    They were both silent for a while; then Mr Tarlington said: “What is it? Bruised toes?”

    “What? Oh! No, not at all.”

    “That must be a lie: you were dancin’ with my Cousin Henrietta,” he noted.

    Harpy laughed a little but said: “What a very sweet child she is, to be sure!”

    Mr Tarlington grunted.

    “Aden, surely you must see it? And very bright, I would say.”

    “Your father won’t approve: poor as a church mouse.”

    “I wish you would stop this unseemly funning: the Miss Parkers are, after all, our connections!”

    “True,” he said. yawning horribly.

    After a few moments Lord Harpingdon sighed and said: “I fear Papa means to press the point with Lady Jane.”

    “What? My dear old fellow, that is absurd, if you cannot care for her!”

    “Quite.”

    Aden hesitated. “He is not in town yet, is he, Christian?”

    “No. He has not been very well. Well, that is why, although I have made my position quite clear, I have not liked to argue the point with him.”

    Aden Tarlington was conscious of a strong wish that the old devil would drop dead. It would be the best thing that could possibly happen to his sons. And Lady Blefford would certainly not miss him. However, he said only: “No. I see.”

    “After all, there is Rupert coming along after me.”

    His cousin swallowed. “Mm. He may not marry, either. And— Look, dammit, dear fellow, I perfectly understand your position, God knows my own is similar enough: but Rupert is a serving officer. You don’t want to see the succession go to those shag-bag Narrowmine connexions over in Norfolk, do you?”

    He swallowed. “Sometimes I think I do not give a damn about the succession.”

    To his horror Aden thought he heard tears in his voice. “I’m sorry, Christian. None of my business.”

    His cousin did not reply.

    The carriage was almost at Lord Harpingdon’s house when Aden said abruptly: “Look, I’m probably damned out of line here, but for God’s sake, Christian, don’t let any consideration of difference in fortune or—or age stand in your way, if you find a lady for whom you can care!”

    “No,” he said with a wan smile. “I shall not.”

    Aden said no more. He felt, indeed, he had said far too much already. He was quite unaware that, on the contrary, he had not said nearly enough and that Lord Harpingdon descended from the carriage with the dreary conviction that, jest though he might, Aden did indeed admire Miss Parker very seriously, and that in mentioning the “consideration of difference in fortune” he was thinking of himself in that regard. He had not noticed the mention of a difference in age, and so was very far from perceiving that it might betray a certain unconscious preoccupation on Mr Tarlington’s part.

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