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By Root 1740 0

” She glanced coyly at me and asked what I thought. I replied on cue that no gown, however gilded, could improve on the lilies I had to hand, causing them to blush and quiver and pant breathlessly, gazing at me with painted eyes that seemed as empty as their heads. I was disposed to believe that a pair of enormous parakeets disguised as women were holding me captive. Telling them I would fetch more champagne, I pushed my way through the dancers to the bar, ducked out a side door, hurried along a corridor, and entered the library, a dim, cavernous space in which a mighty crystal chandelier glittered like a far-off galaxy, throwing glints from the gilt-lettered volumes lining its walls, and there I sat in a leather chair, turning things over in my mind, eventually concluding that I had been an ass. Jane was the loveliest, most admirable, most intriguing woman of my acquaintance. I loved her and had denied the fact purely on the basis of social concerns. This revelation did not bring a song to my heart, because those social concerns were far from illusory. If we were to marry, I would have to surrender all thought of a career in London. If she was exposed to the scrutiny of the circles in which I hoped to travel, her past would be ferreted out and we would be disgraced. If I stayed in London and kept her as a mistress, I would have to endure a Constance or a Preshea. It was not a happy choice, but I made it happily and was about to rush home and announce myself to Jane, when the imposing figure of Sir Charles Mellor hove into view.

“Ah, young Prothero!” He eyed me with disfavor. “There you are.”

I started to stand, but his hand fell upon my shoulder and I sank back into the chair.

Sir Charles sat down, crossed his legs, and adjusted the hang of his trouser cuff. I have said he was imposing, yet he was not an especially large man; his intimidating effect was produced by a fierce, bearded countenance, a cold, clinical, and composed manner, and a penetrating black stare before which his subordinates were wont to quail. The stare was on full display that evening, more conspicuous than the diamond studs on his starched shirt and the massive gold signet upon his left hand.

“Apparently,” he said, “you have made quite the impression on my daughter.”

“And she upon me.” I racked my brain for a suitable compliment. “She is utterly charming.”

“Charming. Yes, I suppose.” He made a church and steeple of his fingers, tapping the tips together. “Beautiful, I should say as well.”

I hastened to agree on this point.

“Witty?” he suggested. “Intelligent?”

“Without a doubt.”

“And yet here you are, lost in thought, while Constance waits in the banquet hall, devastated by your abandonment of her.”

“I intended no abandonment,” I said. “I felt . . .”

“Your intent does not concern me. Or rather it concerns me only as regards your interest or lack thereof in my daughter.”

“Sir Charles, I assure you that I meant no insult. I felt ill and came into the library in order to recover.”

“Constance is an imbecile,” he said. “A shallow, silly young woman. But I will not permit her to be trifled with.”

“Sir,” I said, summoning all the righteous indignation that a short career in theatricals at Cambridge allowed me to access. “Far be it from me to dictate to you, but I am compelled to say that I thoroughly resent your characterization. I have, I admit, only a passing acquaintance with your daughter, but she seems altogether a splendid girl, a lady of pristine breeding and rare quality.”

He studied me a moment longer and then made a noise that I took for a symptom of satisfaction.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked. “Better, I trust.”

“Somewhat.”

“I will sit with you until you are able to return to the banquet hall.”

A silence ensued, alleviated by distant music, after which he said, “I have not seen you at the club lately.”

“I have a patient who commands a great deal of attention.”

“I see. A troublesome case, is it?”

“Most troublesome.”

“I hope you’re being paid and that this is not charitable work in Saint Giles . . . or Saint Nichol.”