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butt.
    â€œThat, Mr. Fairchild, would have been a disaster.”
    â€œForgive me. I speak out of turn. I am a great admirer of your husband. He is a gentleman worthy of you. I suppose if I am critical of Miss Wells it is because so much in her behavior reminds me of one of the first questions Bainbridge posed in a letter he wrote to me soon after meeting her in Cairo. ‘Can such a girl exist?’”
    â€œYou think her character false?”
    â€œI should like very much to know if she was so fond of whisky and cards and gentlemen behaving badly before she decided she wanted to be a duchess.”
    â€œShe has a fortune of her own and has no need for his.”
    â€œBut you know these Americans, Lady Emily. They long for the satisfaction of a title. They are all scrambling to increase their fortunes and their influence. That is the trouble with a meritocracy. One always feels that one must prove oneself, over and over. Once in possession of a title, however, one may sit back, breathe deeply, and enjoy it.”
    â€œI don’t see what difference it will make to her father,” I said, “and he is the one scrambling to keep the fortune multiplying.”
    â€œThe title secures their social rank, even with their fellow Americans, who are not supposed to care about such things. I have no doubt his business associates are not so immune to the luster of blue blood. After all, what they really want is to be admitted to the club. They cannot be born into it, but with a big enough fortune, they can buy their way in through marriage. Lord knows there are enough impoverished noble families in Britain to satisfy their needs.”
    â€œSo you think Miss Wells is after nothing more than a title?”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œI suppose it is difficult for me to understand the appeal.”
    â€œThat, Lady Emily, is because you were born with the blood. An earl’s daughter will always be an earl’s daughter. You take it for granted, and have been afforded the privileges of rank all your life.”
    â€œDo you think she will make him happy?”
    â€œFor a while.” Mr. Fairchild tossed his ivory-handled walking stick into the air and caught it without breaking his stride. “Bainbridge is unlikely to remain a devoted spouse when at last the time comes that whisky and cards are less interesting to his wife than they appear to be now. That is not much different than most marriages, so I ought not be concerned. Yet there is something about her…” His voice trailed. “We must speak no more on this subject. Bainbridge is happy, and the choice of wife is his alone.”
    â€œDid Mr. Neville approve of the match?”
    â€œWholeheartedly. I think he was half in love with Miss Wells himself. Not, mind you, that he would have ever acted on the emotion. Enough, though. Let us enjoy this fine day while we can. Why court trouble before its time has come? It is good to be outdoors and engaged in physical activity. Perhaps we could organize a game of croquet when we return to the hotel.”
    â€œI should have thought you would suggest cricket,” I said.
    â€œWe would not have the correct number of players even if I could convince you ladies to play. Although, if I may be so bold, you would look quite fine in whites. Refashioned in an appropriate style, of course.”
    The steep streets of Le Suquet had slowed our progress considerably, and our pace was hardly half what it had been along La Croisette. Houses lined the narrow passages, their walls painted pale shades of yellow, ranging from the creamiest vanilla to the deepest gold. Their shutters, pastel green, blue, lavender, and lilac, were closed against the heat of the day—Amity should, perhaps, have had us make an earlier start—and flowers spilled from the window boxes beneath a handful of them. This section of Cannes felt a world removed from the seaside, with its grand hotels and wide promenade. Here