The conversation was going on around him, something to do with a house they had all seen recently, or a public building of some nature.

"I am afraid I do not care for it," Delphine Lambert said with feeling. "Most unimaginative. I am disappointed they chose such old-fashioned ideas. There was nothing new in it at all."

"Restricted budget, I daresay," her husband offered.

She gave him an odd look. "Mr. Melville could have designed something far better, I am sure. Don't you think so, my dear?" She looked at Zillah.

"He is quite brilliant," Zillah agreed, unable to hide her enthusiasm. "He is so sensitive. He is able to create beauty where one would never have imagined it possible and to draw designs so it can be built. You cannot imagine how exciting it is to see drawings on a page and then to see them come to rife. Oh!" She blushed. "I mean-to reality, of course. But such grace and inventiveness almost seem as if they have a life, an existence of their own." She looked from one to another of them. "Do you know what I mean?"

"Of course we do, my dear," Lambert assured her. "Only natural for you to be proud of him."

Delphine smiled at Rathbone. "Perhaps you did not know, Sir Oliver, but Zillah is engaged to marry Mr. Melville. It is quite charming to see two young people so devoted to one another; they cannot but be happy. He really is a most talented man, and yet not in the least immodest or overbearing. His success has never gone to his head, nor has he lost his sense of gratitude to Mr. Lambert for his patronage. You believed in him from the very beginning, didn't you, my dear?" It was a rhetorical question. She did not wait for an answer but turned again to Mrs. Ballinger. "Mr. Lambert was always good at seeing a man's character. Makes a judgment from the first meeting, and never wrong that I know of."

"How fortunate," Mrs. Ballinger said dryly, "we have not the opportunity of having to exercise such a gift. So much in society is already known of a person." She did not add the implicated aside that the Lamberts were not part of society, but it hung in the air unsaid.

Mrs. Lambert merely smiled. She could afford to. Society or not, she had successfully accomplished her principal role in life. She was not only married to a wealthy man herself, she had engaged her only daughter to a man of good looks, good manners, brilliant talent, and excellent financial prospects. What more was there to do?

The orchestra had begun to play a waltz. Rathbone turned to Margaret Ballinger.

"Miss Ballinger, will you do me the honor of dancing with me?"

She accepted with a smile and he excused himself and offered her his arm to lead her to the floor. She took it lightly- he could barely feel her hand-and followed him without meeting his eyes.

They had been dancing for several minutes before she spoke, and then it was hesitant.

"I am sorry Mama is so… forward. I hope she did not embarrass you, Sir Oliver."

"Not at all," he said honestly. It was she who had been embarrassed. He had been merely angry. "She is only behaving as all mothers do." He wanted to think of something else to add which would make her feel easier, but he could imagine nothing. This would go on, and they both knew it. It was a ritual. Some young women found a certain excitement in it or had a self-confidence which bore them along. Some were not sufficiently sensitive or imaginative to suffer the humiliation or to perceive the young man's awkwardness or knowledge of being manipulated, almost hunted, and the burden of expectation upon him.

He must find a conversation to hold with Margaret. She was dancing with her head turned away, self-conscious, almost as if she feared he had invited her only to save her embarrassment It was half true. He wished to make it wholly a lie. She seemed so very vulnerable.

"Do you know this architect, Killian Melville?" he asked.

"I have met him three or four times," she answered, a slight lift of surprise in her voice, and she looked up towards him. "Are you interested in architecture, Sir Oliver?"

"Not especially," he said with a smile. "I suppose I tend to be most aware of it when it offends me. I am rather used to agreeable surroundings. Perhaps I take them for granted. What is his work like? A less biased opinion than Miss Lambert's, if you have one…"

She laughed. "Oh, yes indeed. I did like him. He was so easy to talk to. Not in the least… brash or-oh, dear, I don't know how to pursue it without sounding…" She stopped again.

"Now you have me fascinated," he admitted. "Please tell me. Speak frankly, and I promise not to take offense-or to repeat it."

She regarded him uncertainly, then relaxed, and her eyes lost the anxiety they had held until that moment. He realized that without the artificial necessity to be charming, biddable, pretty and accommodating, she was almost certainly an intelligent and most likable person.

"Yes?" he prompted.

She laughed. "I found Mr. Melville one of the most comfortable people I ever encountered," she said, swirling gracefully in his arms as they negotiated a complicated corner, her huge, pale skirts flying. "He never seemed to misunderstand or to need to prove himself and-and parade… as so many young men do… I-" She bit her lip. "I hope that does not sound too unkind?"

"Not at all," he assured her. "Merely very candid. I know precisely what you mean. I have observed it, and I daresay if I were to glance around now I should see a score of examples. I was doubtless guilty of it myself… a few years ago."

She wanted to laugh. He could see it in her eyes, but good manners, and the slightness of their acquaintance, forbade it.

"Perhaps I still do…" He said it before she could complete the thought.

"Oh no," she denied. "I'm sure not now. You don't need to, and you must know that."

"The advantage of age." He laughed at himself.

Suddenly the vulnerability was back in her eyes, and he knew she was afraid he had referred to the difference in their ages to distance himself from her, to let her know gently that this was merely a courtesy acquaintance and could be nothing more. That was trae, but because of his feelings for Hester, not anything to do with Margaret Ballinger. Were it not for Hester, he might well have sought to know Margaret a good deal better.

He was chilled by the realization of how easy it was to hurt, without the slightest intention, simply because one was thinking of something else, watching some other imperative.

"Well, perhaps it is more the assurance one gains from some professional success," he amended, then wished he had not. He was only making it worse. "Tell me more about Mr. Melville's architectural designs. Is he really innovative?"

"Yes, quite definitely," she replied without hesitation. "His designs seem to have far more light than most people's. They are full of windows and curves where I have never seen them before. There is a house in Hampshire he built, or should I say Mr. Lambert had built, which is wonderful inside. Every room seems to be full of sunlight, and the windows are quite irregular. It is extraordinarily comfortable to be in. One always seems to be looking outside either at trees or at the sky. I felt so at peace in it. And yet when I asked the housekeeper if it was difficult to care for, she assured me it was actually highly practical. I was most surprised."

So was Rathbone. He had not judged Melville to have such courage.

"I think perhaps he is a genius," Margaret said very quietly. He only heard her because the music had stopped. They swung to a standstill. He offered his arm again, and she took it.

"Would you care for a glass of champagne?" he asked. "Or lemonade?"

"Lemonade, if you please," she accepted.

He fetched it for her and they spent a little further time in conversation, now not in the least difficult. Then he returned her to where Mrs. Ballinger was standing alone looking remarkably pleased with herself.