Miss Daphne Garthwaite sat in the window-seat and looked out into the street below as Lavinia Philpott, her aunt and guardian, held up two frocks and glanced doubtfully from one to the other.

‘I do think you might make more of an effort, darling,’ said Lavinia. ‘You won’t make the right friends if you wear this sort of thing. Look at this. Nobody is wearing salmon pink this year; it’s quite last season’s colour. No, it won’t do at all.’

‘I like it,’ said Daphne, without turning round. ‘It suits me.’

‘Oh, but how do you expect to get into the papers if you won’t wear the latest fashions?’

‘I don’t want to get into the papers,’ said Daphne.

‘But you must, if you want people to pay attention. I thought you said Freddy had promised to get his mother to write about you in her column.’

‘I never said that at all,’ said Daphne. ‘I just happened to mention that they both work for the Clarion, and you somehow got it into your head that they were going to put my picture in the paper. I don’t know where you got that idea.’

Mrs. Philpott gave an exasperated click of the tongue.

‘Really, darling, you do make things difficult. I put myself out rather a lot for you, you know. All I want is to see you well settled, as your mother would have wanted, but you’re terribly obstinate at times.’

‘And you’re terribly obvious at times,’ said Daphne. ‘People can see what you’re about and they don’t like it.’

‘What I’m about? What a dreadful expression! I’m not about anything. But there’s no sense in being a wallflower if one wants to do well in life, as you must be aware. At least you’ve had the sense to find yourself a young man with connections—yes, I will say that you really have outdone yourself there. I had no idea Cynthia Pilkington-Soames was the cousin of a duke, but of course if she’s Lord Lucian Wareham’s daughter then it all makes sense. Now, this is a tremendous opportunity for you, so I expect you to make the most of it. I dare say there will be all kinds of important people at Belsingham this weekend, so you must do your best to shine. Try and impress the Duchess and make friends with Lady Rose. If you play your cards well you might attract the attention of young Lord Holme.’

‘Oh, Goose,’ said Daphne carelessly. ‘He’s rather good fun, but not exactly my type.’

‘Goose? Is that what they call him? But why didn’t you tell me you knew him?’

‘Because I knew exactly what you’d say,’ replied Daphne. ‘I knew your eyes would gleam when you heard I’d met a marquess.’

‘But he’ll be the Duke of Purbeck one day. Shouldn’t you like to be a duchess?’

‘Good heavens, no!’ said Daphne, raising her eyes in exquisite contempt. ‘I should think it would be frightfully dull. One has so many duties and responsibilities that one would never have so much as a moment to oneself.’

‘But Belsingham is meant to be one of the finest houses in the country. If Lord Holme took a liking to you then it could be all yours to do as you liked with.’

‘But I shouldn’t be able to do as I liked with it, should I? It’s the sort of place where they keep a written history of every chair they’ve ever bought. I dare say I shouldn’t even be allowed to change the wallpaper in the bedroom because Queen Elizabeth once stayed in it.’

‘Don’t be absurd, darling,’ said Lavinia. ‘Who cares about Queen Elizabeth nowadays? Why, she’s been dead a hundred years or more.’

‘Three hundred. And old families care about that sort of thing tremendously. I’d feel awfully out of place—and besides, I don’t want to live buried in the country. I’d much prefer a smart flat in town.’

‘Yes, it is easier to attract attention and get into the society columns if one spends most of one’s time in London,’ said Lavinia, considering. ‘But who shall we get for you, then? A younger son might be better, perhaps. One with plenty of money and no responsibilities. Lord Albert Sprigg might do. Not what one might call handsome, but I dare say he’s pleasant enough. His mother was American, you know. Railways, or something, I believe. He’d be a good catch.’

‘Who on earth is Lord Albert Sprigg?’ said Daphne. ‘You don’t mean that ghastly Bertie Sprigg? Why, I couldn’t possibly. He’s about four foot eleven, for a start.’

‘I think you’re exaggerating, darling. I’m certain he’s at least as tall as I am. But surely that sort of thing doesn’t matter?’

‘It wouldn’t if he were at all worth speaking to, but he’s an absolute crashing bore who talks of nothing but cricket. And he’s oily, too. I danced with him at the Arts Ball and he spent the whole time trying to look down the front of my dress.’

‘If he’s as short as you say he is, then I expect he couldn’t help it,’ said Lavinia. She gave a sigh. ‘Well, I don’t know what to suggest. I’m doing my best, but if you won’t help yourself then you’ll never be well settled.’

‘I told you, I’m not interested in being well settled. And anyway, what’s wrong with Freddy?’

‘Nothing, I suppose,’ said Lavinia doubtfully. ‘If you could persuade him into it. But he doesn’t strike me as the marrying sort. Does he have expectations?’

‘I haven’t the faintest,’ said Daphne. ‘But he’s not at all stingy, I’ll say that for him.’

‘But that side of the family aren’t exactly the thing. I’ve heard a few stories about Lord Lucian that it wouldn’t do to repeat to you, and then of course everybody knows about Freddy’s grandmother—Cecily Tiptree as was. She got fed up with Lord Lucian—not surprising, if the stories are true—and ran off with another man to the Riviera, or Italy, or somewhere like that. But you’d better not mention it. People can be very sensitive about that sort of thing.’

‘Don’t worry, I shan’t,’ said Daphne, who was already determining that by hook or by crook she would find out more about Lord Lucian and what exactly he had done to drive away his wife.

‘I think you might do better than Freddy, though,’ went on Mrs. Philpott. ‘Iris Bagshawe obviously thought she could. You might see if you can find out from her what happened between them. A little artful questioning wouldn’t go amiss, provided you don’t let her see what you’re getting at.’

At that Daphne turned her head away from the window for the first time.

‘Is Iris Bagshawe going to be there?’ she said.

‘So the Duchess said,’ replied Lavinia. She was examining an evening-jacket for loose sequins and so did not see the expression on the face of her niece, which had passed in an instant from boredom to irritation.

‘I see,’ said Daphne after a pause, and her eyes narrowed.

In her well-appointed flat near Knightsbridge, Mrs. Kitty Fitzsimmons was instructing her new maid in the best methods for ensuring the very best care of Mrs. Kitty Fitzsimmons. Despite a certain tendency to pertness, the girl showed signs of having brains and a willingness to please, but according to her references, up to now she had worked only for foreign ladies, who, as far as Mrs. Fitzsimmons could judge, had somewhat eccentric ways of going about things. However, Kitty trusted that a few weeks’ training would smooth off some of the rough edges, and that the two of them in time would rub along very nicely together. At present, the maid was packing for a weekend at Belsingham, as her mistress sat in a chair and gave directions.

‘Now, about Friday night’s dinner,’ said Kitty thoughtfully. The girl regarded Mrs. Fitzsimmons appraisingly for a minute, then reached into the wardrobe and brought out a wisp of rose-coloured chiffon trimmed with cream lace and shimmering gold beads, which would undoubtedly set off Kitty’s pale complexion and fair hair to perfection.

Kitty mentally gave the maid a mark of approbation.

‘That is a favourite of mine,’ she said. ‘However did you guess?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the girl. ‘It just seemed obvious.’

‘Well, I’d certainly wear it for any other occasion, but I think this time we’d better not. I don’t want to draw the wrong sort of attention to myself at Belsingham. Better take the dark chocolate satin.’

The girl gave the briefest of grimaces, which Kitty saw.

‘You don’t like it?’ she said. ‘Why not? Is it the colour?’

‘No,’ said the maid, looking from the dress to Kitty. ‘The colour’s not bad. It’s the dress.’

‘But it’s the latest thing,’ said Kitty. ‘Everyone says it suits me. Look.’ She took the frock from the girl and quickly slipped into it, then turned around to display the dress to its full advantage. It was a sort of plain, fitted tunic made of satin with a very dull sheen, which looked not unlike something that might have been worn by a woman of mediaeval times. In its studied simplicity it was rather daring, and had quite evidently cost a lot of money. ‘You see? Don’t you think it fits me perfectly?’

‘Yes,’ said Valentina Sangiacomo. ‘And I can’t say it doesn’t suit you, either, because it does. It’s beautiful, and you’re beautiful in it. But you oughtn’t to wear it. You look like one of those martyrs from the olden days who were burnt at the stake. It’s all wrong.’

‘No, no,’ said Kitty Fitzsimmons, with a delighted laugh at the girl’s perception. ‘You’re quite mistaken, my dear. It’s all exactly right.’

Dr. Bachmann straightened his tie and smoothed down his hair with a comb. He was a tall, handsome man of fifty who took care of his appearance and was not ashamed of it—although he would have disputed any suggestion that he was at all vain. He was looking forward to the weekend at Belsingham, for he had not seen his dear friend Cedric Wareham for perhaps twenty years. Cedric had in recent years become a duke following the death of his uncle, but to judge from his correspondence, which had remained as frequent and informal as ever, his changed situation had not altered him in any way for the worse. Dr. Bachmann wanted very much to see Mrs. Wareham again—the Duchess of Purbeck as she now was. Beatrix had been a pretty girl and Dr. Bachmann had rather admired her at the time, although naturally there was no question of his being able to compete with the heir presumptive to a dukedom, and so he had never so much as considered putting forward a claim. He wondered how time had treated her. And there would be other people there, too. A Professor Coddington, Cedric had said. Perhaps they could talk ‘shop’ and keep one another entertained. Dr. Bachmann seemed to remember he knew Professor Coddington. He had met him once or twice at academic conferences—if it was the same man—and had read some of his publications, which in Dr. Bachmann’s private opinion were fit for nothing but the fire. Dr. Bachmann would never have been so ill-bred as to express this opinion out loud, but he looked forward very much to debating with Professor Coddington and demanding he justify his ideas, for Dr. Bachmann was a great upholder of academic rigour, and in his view there were far too many papers being published these days which had not been duly submitted for examination and approval by the intellectual authorities.

Here his face darkened momentarily as his mind went back to the recent past. At least here in England he could be reasonably sure that no-one knew anything of him, or would bring up that business that had caused him such misery and had very nearly cost him his career. It had all been nonsense, of course. Why, nobody could possibly have believed such a thing of him! But in the end, it had been too difficult to prove that he was in the right, and by that time his reputation had already begun to suffer, so his superiors had, with reluctance, suggested he leave the university where he had been so happy and had produced some of his best work. For some time he had struggled to find another position in a Swiss university, and at length he had been forced to leave the country, and accept an inferior position at a university in Italy. He had worked hard ever since, and he had seen to it that no further scandal had ever been attached to his name, but even though he had begun to rebuild his reputation and had achieved some modest success in his field, he was still bitter at the thought of what he had lost—and all the old feelings had returned that morning when a letter had arrived from his old university. He knew what it was, but he had not read it yet, out of fear that it might not contain the answer he was hoping for.

But he must not let this most pleasant weekend be ruined by thoughts of the past. He had much to be thankful for, and this visit to Belsingham to see his old friend promised much enjoyment. He glanced at his watch. If he left now, he would have plenty of time to buy a newspaper and other sundry requirements before his train departed. He turned to his small suitcase, which was lying open on the bed, put the unopened letter inside it and closed it with a snap, then picked it up and went out in search of a taxi.