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Fairfield inclined his head toward me and said, in a very concerned way, “Is something troubling you, ma’am? You look worried,” I was within ames’ ace of opening my budget to him.
    Auntie, perhaps sensing my mood, said, “We are just tired from the trip, milord.”
    He rose at once. “It is unconscionable of me to be imposing on you at this time. There is a matter I wished to discuss with you, but it must wait till later.”
    No sane possibility of what this matter could be occurred to me, but I said, “I am not at all tired.”
    Lord Fairfield had just resumed his seat and adjusted his body to a comfortable position in the chair when another tap came at the door. “That will be Smythe,” Mrs. Lovatt said, and rose to admit him.
    Her sharp intake of breath was audible across the room, but it was soon overborne by the loud and common accents of a female. “G’day, Mrs. Lovatt. I spotted you on the Marine Parade a short while ago and saw you enter the hotel. I have come to pay my condolences on Harold’s death.”
    Lord Fairfield blinked in astonishment at the apparition who elbowed Mrs. Lovatt aside and strode into the chamber, amidst a reek of toilet water. She was a full-blown blond woman of heroic proportions. Her natural color was assisted by a generous application from the rouge pot. She was outfitted all in violet, from the swirling feathers of her high poke bonnet to the tips of her kidskin gloves and kid slippers. If this liberal use of violet was meant to indicate half mourning, it failed miserably. She looked like an actress decked out for a mourning scene, whose performance she was enjoying immensely.
    “Such a shock for you, Miss Hume,” she said, rushing up to me. “Happening away from home and all, and under such queer circumstances. You must have wondered what had hit you.” As she spoke, her eyes flashed with keen interest toward Lord Fairfield.
    I was obliged to perform the introduction. “Lord Fairfield, this is an old neighbor from Hythe, Mrs. Mobley.”
    “Not that old!” Mrs. Mobley assured him, with a playful nudge and something dangerously close to a wink.
    Fairfield had risen to his feet upon her entrance. He made a very civil bow, and said, “Charmed, madam.”
    Mrs. Mobley, with a deal of commotion, arranged her reticule, umbrella, and a bag of something she had been carrying on the table beside her. She then turned to me. “Have you found out what carried off your father?” she demanded, with the avid eagerness of the born gossip.
    I was acutely aware of Lord Fairfield’s eyes upon me. I was glad Mrs. Mobley didn’t know Papa had been shot. It seemed a vulgar way to die. “That is why we have come, but we have not learned anything yet. And how are you liking Brighton, Mrs. Mobley?” I asked hastily, hoping to divert the conversation to harmless topics. “I heard you had gone to Ireland.”
    “Ireland is a wonderful climate—for potatoes,” she said. “I stuck it out for as long as I could. I much prefer Brighton. It’s lively. It is. Between Prinney’s visits and bathing and boating, and of course, your father’s visits, I have been well entertained.”
    Mrs. Lovatt’s spine stiffened, as if a poker had suddenly been inserted up it. “I had not realized you were on terms with the Prince Regent,” she said, with awful irony.
    Mrs. Mobley emitted a raucous bark of laughter. “Good gracious, Mrs. Lovatt, I have not met him. I simply meant it is good fun to watch the old walrus carrying his belly along the streets. Mind you, I have not entirely given up on scraping an acquaintance, for he is partial to mature ladies, and has no love of string beans.” A condemning eye raked Mrs. Lovatt’s ladderlike frame. “When a lady reaches our age, she must give up on either her face or her figure. If you try to lose a pound, the first place it goes is the face.”
    “Your face has certainly not lost its bloom,” Mrs. Lovatt retorted, staring at the rolls of fat around