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chatting to a small group of people; he moved forward a step to greet the guest, and so also did two ladies. Fancot realized that he had been imperfectly coached: he had no idea which of them was the lady to whom he was supposed to have offered his hand. For one agonized moment he thought himself lost; then he saw that the taller of the two, a fashionably attired woman with elaborately dressed fair hair and a rather sharp-featured but undeniably pretty face, was in the family way; and barely repressing a sigh of relief, he bowed to her, and shook hands, exchanging greetings with a cool assurance he was far from feeling. He then turned towards her companion, smiling at her, and carrying the hand she extended to him to his lips. He thought that that was probably what Evelyn, a practised flirt, would do; but even as he lightly kissed the hand he was assailed by a fresh problem: how the devil ought he to address the girl? Did Evelyn call her Cressy, or was he still on formal terms with her? He had had as yet no opportunity to take more than a brief look at her, but he had received the impression that she was a little stiff: possibly shy, certainly reserved. Not a beauty, but a good-looking girl, grey-eyed and brown-haired, and with a shapely figure. Well enough but quite unremarkable, and not at all the sort of female likely to appeal to Evelyn.
    At this moment, and just as he released Miss Stavely’s hand, one of the assembled company, an elderly spinster who had been observing him with avid curiosity, confided to a stout matron in the over-loud voice of the deaf: ‘ Very handsome! That I must own!’
    Startled, and far from gratified, Kit looked up, involuntarily meeting Miss Stavely’s eyes. They held a look of twinkling appreciation; and he thought suddenly that she was more taking than he had at first supposed. He smiled, but before he could speak Lord Stavely interposed, saying: ‘Come, Denville, my mother is anxious to make your acquaintance!’
    He led the way across the room to where the Dowager Lady Stavely was seated in a large armchair, grimly watching their approach.
    Listening to his mama’s daunting description of the Dowager, Kit had insensibly formed the impression of a massive lady, with a hook nose and a commanding bosom. He realized that his imagination had misled him: the Dowager was small, and spare, with a straight nose and a flat bosom. She had a deceptive air of fragility, and her thin fingers were twisted by gout. Her expression was not that of one anxious to make Lord Denville’s acquaintance. When her son rather obsequiously presented Kit, she said: ‘H’m!’ in a disparaging tone, and looked him over critically from head to foot before holding out her hand. That tickled his ready sense of humour, and brought a dancing smile into his eyes. He said demurely: ‘I am honoured, ma’am!’ and bowed politely over her hand.
    ‘Fiddle!’ she snapped. ‘So you are William Denville’s son,’ are you? You’re not as good-looking as your father.’
    Lord Stavely cleared his throat deprecatingly; a faded lady of uncertain age and a harassed demeanour, who was standing beside the Dowager’s chair, looked imploringly at Kit, and uttered a faint, twittering sound. He was aware of tension amongst the assembled members of the family, and began to be very much amused. He replied: ‘Oh, no! But, then, my father was exceptionally good-looking, wasn’t he, ma’am’?’
    She glared at him; and, in another attempt to put him out of countenance, said: ‘And, by what I hear, you’re not as well-behaved either!’
    ‘He was exceptionally well-behaved too,’ countered Kit.
    Someone behind him gave a smothered guffaw; the faded lady, blenching, said, in the voice of one expectant of a blistering set-down: ‘Oh, pray ,Mama—!’
    ‘Pray what?’ demanded the Dowager sharply.
    Lord Stavely, jerked out of paralysis by a nudge from his wife’s elbow, hurried into the breach, saying: ‘I must make you