14

“Hurry up, ladies, or the dance is going to start without us!”

“We’re coming, Mrs. Vance,” Grace called downstairs. She rushed to shrug out of her robe and into the embroidered cotton summer dress she’d worn at the manor.

Clare had also dressed for the occasion wearing a long, blue cotton skirt and flowing white shirtwaist embroidered with tiny blue-and-gold flowers. In her hands she held a narrow straw hat trimmed in matching blue ribbons and sprigs of lavender.

“You look quite sharp,” Grace said, tying a bow into the white satin sash, completing her ensemble. “The color goes well with your eyes.”

Clare smiled as she donned the hat. “Thanks. Except for church on Sundays, I feel like I live in trousers and boots.”

“That’s because you do,” Grace said. “At least I got the chance to wear this dress for dinner the other night.” The memory of her intimate celebration with Jack still warmed her. “Though only Lord Roxwood’s staff got to see me in it, and Miss Arnold,” she added, recalling the woman’s piercing scrutiny.

“Speaking of Her Highness, Agnes said she left in a temper this morning?”

“Yes, I believe Sir Marcus drove her back to London.” And if Miss Arnold’s abrupt departure was any indication, her visit hadn’t gone as planned. Grace was secretly thrilled she’d left Roxwood. “Unfortunate for Sir Marcus, since I think you would have completely swept him away, especially in that darling hat.”

Clare arched a brow as she tucked a few errant wisps of dark hair beneath her brim. “Oh, I’d have swept him away, all right—with a good, stiff broom.”

Grace laughed, and Clare flashed a conspiratorial grin that produced a dimple in her right cheek. “You clean up nicely, Mabry. That green makes your hair look like fire.”

Grace adjusted the emerald gauze framing her wide-brimmed straw hat. “Thanks, Danner,” she teased. “Green is my favorite color, you know. I’m Irish, after all.”

Clare winked. “Won’t our dance cards fill up the minute we walk in the door?”

Grace’s smile turned wistful. It would be nice if Sir Marcus and Jack could have attended the dance tonight. But Sir Marcus was back in London, and Jack would never consider making a public appearance in the village. Coming under the town’s scrutiny once had been enough.

She sighed. At least she would enjoy some leisure time with her WFC sisters, a rare occurrence since they always seemed to be working. Grace wanted to spend time with Agnes, too. She’d returned to the gatehouse this morning after only two days with Violet Arnold. Her friend seemed out of sorts.

Agnes still wore her uniform as she dug through her traveling bag on the bed. Grace finished pinning her hat, then walked to her. She touched her maid lightly on the shoulder. “Agnes?”

Agnes jumped and whirled around. “Oh, miss, you startled me!”

“I’m sorry, I just wondered if you were all right.” She noted the tight lines at Agnes’s mouth and her high color. “You seem distraught. Did Miss Arnold mistreat you?” Grace felt regret at having tossed her into the horrid woman’s path.

“Oh, no, miss.” Her features eased. “Aside from helping her dress and arrange her hair, I don’t think she even knew I was there.”

“Then why aren’t you getting ready for the dance? We’re all taking our bicycles to the village in a few minutes.”

“I . . . want to write a letter first, to my family in Belgium. I cannot seem to find my paper and pen.”

Grace was tempted to ask about the photograph she’d discovered in Agnes’s bag, but with the other women in the room, she didn’t think it prudent. “You’re welcome to use my stationery. It’s in my portmanteau,” she said.

“Oh, thank you.” Agnes looked relieved.

Poor dear, she must miss her mother and sister terribly. “Don’t be too long getting to the dance,” Grace said in an effort to lighten the mood. “It’s been a while since you and I have enjoyed time together besides lugging around bales of hay. And wear your new shirtwaist. That shade of pink is so becoming on you.”

Agnes paused. Then she shook her head, her brown eyes misting. “You’re always so kind . . .”

“Now, that’s enough.” Grace felt her own eyes begin to burn. “I’m just being truthful.”

“Your truth is colored by friendship, miss,” Agnes said softly. “And it will always be the most beautiful shade to me.” She took a deep breath and made an effort to smile. “I won’t be long and I will wear the pink. I’m certain Mr. Tillman will bring me over later in the cart.”

Grace nodded. “Mrs. Vance said another WFC gang will be there from the estate of Winton, and rumor has it the new Land Army girls, as well.” She winked. “Finding enough dance partners to go around might be a challenge if we don’t get there first.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Agnes promised.

Heading downstairs with the rest of the women, Grace thought about her own family. She had yet to receive a letter from her brother, and while Jack’s explanation about Army mail had reassured her somewhat, she still worried about Colin.

Nor had she received a letter from Da since she arrived. Grace found she longed to see him, and it hurt to imagine he was too busy with Swan’s to think of her.

She halted on the steps as she realized she’d forgotten to post her letter—the one she intended to mail the day she took Jack to the village . . . two weeks ago! She’d changed her mind after seeing how the townspeople gawked at him, then had been so busy traveling or working in the fields that it completely slipped her mind.

Guilt plagued her. She could hardly fault Da when she was so thoughtless. Resuming her descent, she determined to mail the letter on Monday. Tomorrow she could add a postscript inquiring after any news of Colin. Perhaps Agnes would post it with hers, in the event Jack called on her to drive. With Violet Arnold gone, the chances were very good.

The thought buoyed her while she moved to crowd with the other women near the door. All looked their best, laughing and excited at the prospect of a night out. Mrs. Vance looked splendid in a rose-print dress, her straw hat decorated in matching mauve ribbons. “Shall we?” she said, smiling as she opened the door to their resounding yes.

Mr. Tillman stood on the front step. “Ladies,” he said in his rumbly voice.

He still wore his work clothes. “Why, Mr. Tillman,” Mrs. Vance said in a breathless voice, “are you here to escort us?”

“As much as that would please me, Mrs. Vance, I’ve still duties to attend to. I came with a message for Miss Mabry.”

Grace’s pulse quickened as she moved past the others to the front. Was it from Jack? Or perhaps word from Colin? “What message do you have?”

“His lordship has offered to let you drive the ladies to the dance in his motorcar, so that you might arrive ‘in style.’ I’ve got the cart here if you’d like me to take you to fetch it.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Lucy and Becky in unison.

“Thank you, Mr. Tillman. And thank Lord Roxwood.” Grace hid her disappointment. No word from her brother, and any hope she’d held that Jack might decide to attend the festivities was gone, not if he was allowing her to use the car for her friends.

She chastised herself for a fool. How could she think they had any future together? He was engaged to someone else. Grace was his paid driver, nothing more.

Liar. She could still imagine his hand on hers at the table during dinner. The man who ate alone was willing enough then to break his own rules. His words to her, that she was his eyes and the best gift he’d received, burned in her memory and would remain always, no matter what the future held for either of them.

It was dusk when they finally arrived at the dance in the Daimler. Even from the street, the village community hall of Roxwood stood ablaze in light. Sounds of laughter and the quick melody of ragtime being played on a piano could be heard outside.

Parking the car, Grace followed Clare and the others into the hall. Becky was the first to break from their party, cutting a path to a pair of tables heaped with refreshments.

The place was packed with young men and women. A few couples danced while a soldier sat at the piano playing the light, carefree music they’d heard moments before.

“Oh, there’s Millicent Foster!” Mrs. Vance waved at a woman near the refreshment tables. “She’s the supervisor for the WFC gang working at the Winton estate. We went through training together at Norfolk.”

Millicent Foster, a woman close to Mrs. Vance’s age and dressed in a seal-brown skirt and tailored jacket beamed and waved back. She was surrounded by five young and hardy-looking females clad in an array of blue, brown, and gray skirts, white shirtwaists, and straw hats with matching ribbons. Each held a glass of pink lemonade.

“See the woman over there, in uniform?” Mrs. Vance indicated another group along the opposite wall near the piano. “She’s with the Land Army girls I told you about.”

“Does that mean they’ll be coming to Roxwood?” Grace asked.

Mrs. Vance nodded. “I was informed yesterday a gang will start within two weeks. Our haymaking here is nearly done, and then we’ll be sent on to the next farm.”

Grace felt a jolt as she realized they would all be leaving Roxwood soon. What about Jack? Would she be able to stay on as his driver, or must she go with her sisters to the next farm?

“They’re pretty g-girls.” Lucy’s comment tore Grace from her musings, and she gazed at the Land Army women talking and laughing with a few of the soldiers.

“There seem to be more than enough ladies,” Clare observed, though a surprising number of young men in uniform stood in line for refreshments. Grace noted each table laden with mountains of biscuits, floured cakes, mince pies, and tiny cucumber sandwiches. Large punch bowls made of cut glass brimmed with pink lemonade. Given the war’s rationing, it was a sumptuous feast.

“It’s obvious these folks have scrimped for some time to provide such a bounty,” Mrs. Vance said, reading her thoughts.

“Certainly a sign of their patriotism,” Grace said, nodding her approval.

“I think it speaks more to their affection for these boys,” Mrs. Vance said gently. “When the threat of losing a child hangs in the balance, each moment you’re together becomes precious. No sacrifice seems too great for love.”

“No, it doesn’t,” murmured Clare, standing on Grace’s other side.

She turned to her friend and caught the flash of pain in the gray eyes. Scanning the crowded room, Grace noted for the first time the uniformed soldiers standing between older couples: fathers, with arms slung over the shoulders of their sons, while teary-eyed mothers squeezed the hands of their boys, who would all too soon return to the Front.

Grace spotted others standing with their families, some wearing uniforms, others sporting bandaged heads, broken arms, or a wooden crutch in place of a leg. A lump rose in her throat as the light of her idealism began to dim. Mrs. Vance was right. Love prompted these families, not duty or allegiance or pride. Again, she couldn’t help thinking of her brother, wondering where he was this night.

Did he struggle with sleep in some rat-infested trench? Or stand watch as they waited for the enemy to strike? Would he become like one of these boys, missing an arm or a leg?

Swiftly, images rose in her mind: Grace and her brother shouting wildly at last year’s rally, before their mother’s death; Colin smiling and looking smart in his brand-new uniform as they both stood beside Mother’s bed.

Lillian Mabry’s look of devastation as she’d turned to gaze at her daughter . . .

Grace felt her chest tighten. Oh, Colin, why don’t you simply write?

“My goodness, Sir Marcus is here,” Mrs. Vance said. “What an honor!”

The handsome figure of Sir Marcus Weatherford entered the hall, looking smart in a brown pinstriped suit, matching waistcoat, and hat in hand.

A hush fell over the room as Jack followed closely behind.

Grace drew in a sharp breath. Even with the mask, he looked splendid. His tall frame was encased in a tailored navy-blue suit that fit his rugged form perfectly. In his hand he carried a single red rose.

Sir Marcus searched the room before his gaze settled on them. He turned to murmur something to Jack, and the two men approached.

“Good evening, Sir Marcus, Lord Roxwood,” Mrs. Vance said.

“Ladies.” Sir Marcus turned to Clare. “Miss Danner, you look enchanting this evening.” He offered a polite bow.

Clare seemed frozen in place. Finally she found her voice. “I thought you returned to London.”

“Margate.” He smiled beneath the dark mustache. “I had to deliver someone to the train station this morning. And while I was there I purchased a new hat. Do you like it?”

Clare pursed her lips, eying the boater as if it might bite.

“Why, it’s very smart, isn’t it, Clare?” Grace said, moving forward when her friend remained silent.

“Very” was all Clare said, and she cast a wary glance at Sir Marcus.

“Miss Mabry?” Jack had obviously heard her speak and moved closer. With a slight incline of his head, he held out the red rose. “Would you do me the honor?”

Grace’s thoughts flew back to the night of Lady Bassett’s ball. He’d handed her a rose then just like this one. She’d been angry with him because he’d laughed at her.

He wasn’t laughing now. “Thank you,” she said softly, taking the flower from him.

“Miss Danner, would you care to dance?” Sir Marcus waved toward the dance floor. The ragtime had ended, with the piano player leaving in search of refreshments. Now a gramophone and records provided the music, the first notes of the song “Missing You, Dear” echoing in the hall.

Clare shot Grace an anxious look. Grace sympathized . . . then nudged her friend toward Sir Marcus. One could not let fear rule, after all. “It’s just a dance,” she whispered. “An evening of fun, away from the nasty, loud steam baler. Nothing more.”

Her friend’s resolve seemed to weaken as she looked toward the couples moving back and forth to the music. “All right.” She nodded at Sir Marcus. “One dance.”

“Excellent!” Looking pleased, he held out his hand to her, and they headed off to the dance floor.

“Excuse me, Lord Roxwood. I must have a word with a co-worker.” Mrs. Vance sketched a brief curtsy and departed in the direction of Millicent Foster. A wide-eyed Lucy followed.

“Thank you for letting me use the Daimler this evening,” Grace said when she and Jack were alone. “The ladies were quite thrilled to finally have a ride in the car, and for two of them it was their first experience.”

“I am pleased to bestow so much pleasure with such little effort,” he said quietly. “And I imagine attending a dance is a special occasion.”

“Very much so, especially for these women. Baling hay from farm to farm doesn’t allow for much entertainment. It’s all rather a quiet, rural existence.”

“And does it suit you?”

Grace brushed a finger against the outer petals of the rose. “I love the tranquility and the natural beauty of Kent, though I do occasionally miss being in London with its amusements. I’ve always enjoyed visiting the galleries and museums. Even the bustling atmosphere at Swan’s is to my liking. For the research, you understand,” she added. “Patrons always manage to provide me with interesting story ideas.”

“Yes, I’m certain gossip must abound in a tea shop filled with women.”

“Indeed, it does.” Grace wondered if he knew of all the nefarious tales regaled about him.

“What did they have to say about me?” he asked uncannily, and she debated whether or not to tell him.

Grace decided to be truthful. “They said you were quite the reprobate. That you gambled, drank, and had an affair with a different woman each day of the week.”

His chuckle delighted her. She was also surprised at his reaction. “Doesn’t it make you angry to be discussed in that manner?”

He smiled and said, “In my former line of work, a disreputable reputation was essential.”

“What occupation was that?”

He shook his head, and his amusement waned. “I can only tell you the stakes were extremely high”—he turned away from her—“and very costly.”

Curiosity burned in her. What kind of work would create such risk? She thought of his notorious gambling in the past. Surely he hadn’t made a profession out of it?

Grace wanted to know more, but he seemed reticent. She decided not to press him, at least not directly. She was enjoying his company far too much to risk his getting angry enough to leave. “Was any of it true? The gossip?” she asked instead. He hadn’t actually denied any of it.

“I admit to being a bit reckless from time to time.” The smile returned to play along his mouth. “But I was hardly the Don Juan they made me out to be.”

No, but you made a very believable Casanova. Grace gazed at the rose in her hand, lifting the bloom to breathe in its fragrant scent. “This rose has a lovely smell. Is it from your garden?”

“One of the few your piglets didn’t ravage.” His teasing voice made her insides flutter. “It’s called William Morgan, after my great-grandfather, who created the rose for his garden.”

“How can you tell which one it is?”

“By its scent,” he said. “I chose it myself.”

Pleasure filled her. “Thank you.”

“Have you danced yet?”

Startled by his question, she responded without thinking, “Are you asking me?”

His smile waned, and she regretted her words. “I don’t dance anymore.”

“Why not?”

His jaw set. “You really need to ask, Miss Mabry?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, deciding to press on. “Because your legs appear to be in good working order, and with your exceptional sense of direction I’m certain you won’t step on my toes. Care to give it a try?”

“Here?” His mouth went slack with surprise before drawing into a thin line. “I don’t care to entertain the crowds any more than I have already.”

“They have plenty of entertainment,” she said softly. “They’re dancing, laughing, taking refreshments. They won’t even know we’re here.”

She reached to take his hand. “No.” He pulled back from her, his voice low, terse.

“They aren’t gawking at you. Please, give me your hand?”

He hesitated for an instant, then relaxed and slowly offered his hand. Grace took it, thrilled over his willingness to trust her. “We’ll dance right here, if you like,” she said, and felt her heart pounding inside her chest as he closed the distance and ran his hand gently along her side until it settled firmly against her waist. Still holding the rose in her grasp, she placed her other hand against his shoulder as he began leading her gracefully to the soft, somber music.

Glancing toward the other couples on the dance floor, Grace noted a few had turned in their direction. Some made comments between themselves, but no one stared. “I was right,” she said in a teasing voice. “You dance well.”

“So do you.” His tender smile made her feel hot and cold at the same time. “Who taught you?”

Grace hadn’t revealed to him that Lady Bassett had sponsored her at Brondesbury, a finishing school in Surrey. Still, she could tell him the truth. “Mother insisted we children learn at a very early age how to maneuver the steps to music. Since Colin and I were of an age . . .”

“He was your dance partner?”

The smile on his face broadened, and Grace was again struck by the strength of his jaw, the beauty of his sculpted mouth. She felt giddy. “Yes, and believe me, I learned to be very fast in sidestepping his cloddish feet!”

Jack’s laughter filled the air, and Grace blinked at the wondrous sound. Several people glanced their way, a few wearing faint smiles as though sharing in his amusement. Likely it was a sound they’d not heard in quite some time, and without the steel mesh he didn’t look half so fearsome. She felt tempted to ask him right then to remove the mask, but stopped, knowing what his reaction would be. Yet as she turned to scan the room, seeing soldiers leaning on crutches or nursing bandages, she imagined Jack would quite fit in with this gathering of wounded souls. No one need know his injuries stemmed from less than admirable behavior rather than duty. The reasons didn’t make his suffering any less painful or real, and likely more filled with regret.

The music ended. Jack released her and offered a slight bow of his head. “Thank you, Miss Mabry.”

“You can still call me Grace, if you like,” she said, all at once shy. Perhaps he’d already forgotten about their familiarity during dinner the other evening?

“Grace.”

His dazzling smile threatened to melt her heart. “I’m glad you joined Sir Marcus here tonight.”

“Why is that?”

Flustered, she said, “The townspeople seem pleased you are here, along with the soldiers home on leave.”

“And you, Grace?” The sculpted lips settled into a pensive line. “Are you pleased?”

Oh, yes! she wanted to shout, but the reminder of his engagement to Miss Arnold dimmed her joy. “Of course I am. I mean, we all are.” She added, “I understand Miss Arnold has departed Roxwood. Shall I drive for you on Monday?”

“She has.” His flat tone suggested an end to the subject. “And I look forward to Monday’s outing. In fact, you may end up driving me home tonight, unless Marcus can be pried away from the enchanting Miss Danner.”

“He seems quite taken with her.”

“Do you know how she feels about him?”

“Well, she doesn’t really know him yet.” Grace considered Clare’s earlier remark involving a broom. “But honestly, Sir Marcus could be a barn rat for all the good it will do him.”

Jack chuckled. “I did hear she wasn’t exactly overwhelmed by his charm.”

“That’s an understatement.” Grace smiled and turned to see the couple had left the dance floor before the start of the next tune. Then moments later Henry Burr’s voice blared through the gramophone, singing, “If You Were the Only Girl in the World.”

“Clare isn’t too impressed with titles or wealth,” she said, feeling it safe to reveal that much about her friend. “I think Sir Marcus will have to prove himself mightily before she opens her heart to him.”

“Marcus is a good man. Better than I ever was. I hope Miss Danner comes to appreciate his qualities.”

Grace looked up at him, a man whose pride had been brought low by his own folly. He’d been humbled by his injuries and existed in a world of darkness, isolation, and fear. Yet he’d risen from his plight to come here now, tonight, and stand in a crowded room, laughing, smiling, and enjoying life, with her . . .

“I am sure she will.” She spoke softly, filled with a new, deeper yearning she felt unable to repress.

“Grace?” Jack said in a low voice, seeming to detect in her tone what she really meant.

At that moment, Clare and Sir Marcus rejoined them, each holding a glass of the pink lemonade. The moment with Jack had passed, and Grace felt both relieved and dismayed. She glanced at her friend, and while Clare didn’t smile, her color hadn’t yet faded.

“Would you like a lemonade, Miss Mabry? Have mine, and I’ll get another.” Sir Marcus offered her his glass.

“Thank you very much, Sir Marcus . . .” She started to take the glass and saw Jack flinch. Understanding dawned. “However, Lord Roxwood and I were just about to get our own.” Leaving her fragrant rose with Clare, Grace slipped a hand into the crook of Jack’s arm and led him toward the refreshment tables.

“Why are you doing this?” he hissed.

“Because I have faith in your abilities,” she whispered. “Punch bowl and ladle are at ten o’clock, glasses at eight.” Grace watched with pride and amazement as he used his fingers to ladle lemonade into two glasses, handing her one of them. “Plates are at three o’clock, and cucumber sandwiches directly to the right of those.”

He searched out a plate and filled it with four of the sandwiches. Grace then gently tucked her arm in his and led him to the table, where Clare and Sir Marcus now sat. Once they settled in, Jack passed around the plate.

“Thanks, old boy.” Sir Marcus eyed Grace with a thoughtful expression, then reached for a cucumber sandwich. Clare shot her a puzzled frown, but said nothing as she helped herself to one, as well.

“Are you enjoying the dance?” Grace asked Sir Marcus.

“Immensely.” He turned to Clare, seated across from him. “And may I say, Miss Danner, you’re quite an accomplished partner.” He smiled.

Clare’s color heightened as she took a long sip of her lemonade. Finally she set down her glass and said primly, “I appreciate the compliment, Sir Marcus.”

“Would you care for another dance?”

She raised a dark brow at him. “I agreed to one dance.”

“You’ve not answered my question, Miss Danner,” he parleyed in a smooth tone. “Do you care to continue?”

She tipped her head. “If you insist,” she said. “But we ladies put in a full day’s work before coming to the dance tonight. I’m afraid exhaustion has caught up with me.”

“Then we shall wait for another opportunity.”

Grace was impressed at Sir Marcus’s consideration despite his crestfallen look. He said, “Shall I see you at church tomorrow?”

Clare nodded, and Grace said, “We shall all be there, Sir Marcus.” Grace’s gaze bounced off Jack. “Perhaps you might even convince Lord Roxwood to attend?”

“Still trying to save my soul, Miss Mabry?” A smiled touched his lips, though it lacked humor. “Don’t waste your time.” To Sir Marcus, he said, “Since the ladies have tired of dancing, Marcus, how about giving me a lift home?”

“You mean you won’t stay?” Grace had hoped for at least one more dance.

Jack slid his hand along the table toward her, and instinctively she reached for it. She ignored the surprised looks from both Clare and Sir Marcus as pleasure coursed through her.

“As much as I would enjoy it, Miss Mabry . . . Grace,” he said, giving her fingers a squeeze, “this is a bit more social activity than I’ve had in quite a while. I’ll look forward to our drive on Monday.” His smile was genuine. He pressed her hand and rose from the table. His friend also rose.

“Until tomorrow, Miss Danner,” Sir Marcus said, then took up her hand and kissed it.

Clare’s cheeks bloomed. “Sir Marcus.”

The two men made their way past the throng of people, with Sir Marcus casting about several abstract good-byes before he and Jack departed the hall.

“What exactly is going on between you two, Grace?” Clare asked. “I’d hardly call what I just saw a mere truce.”

“I could ask the same about you. Sir Marcus seems a decent man. You should consider taking a closer look, Clare, before you tar him with the same brush you use on every other titled and affluent man in Great Britain. Did he tell you he’s a lieutenant with the Admiralty?”

Clare nodded. “He does seem very nice,” she agreed. “He’s quite attractive, too.” Her frown returned. “But you’ve changed the subject. Are you and Lord Roxwood . . . ? I mean to say, do you care for one another?”

Grace couldn’t deny her feelings. She bent her head to the rose, again breathing in its heavenly scent. “I think so.”

“He’s engaged.”

“I know that,” Grace snapped. “But he isn’t happy about it, and neither is she.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Clare’s tone gentled.

“You’re right, Clare.” Grace’s brow creased. Even though Jack and Violet likely wished to be worlds apart, there remained some mysterious obligation holding them together.

“He’s also a member of the royal peerage,” Clare added. “Good heavens, Grace. He’ll be an earl one day.”

“Jack and I are not entirely out of each other’s social realm,” she said, bristling. “I would imagine my father is just as wealthy as Miss Arnold’s, and she is hardly royalty, after all. Times are changing. We’re in the midst of a new age and a war, with women expanding their roles in society. I believe separation of class will continue to shrink.”

Clare snorted. “One of your pretty suffragette speeches?” Then compassion lit her gray eyes when she said, “I live in the world, Grace, and right now it hurts badly. Don’t let him break your heart.”

“I won’t, Clare. I promise.” Grace leaned to touch her wrist. “And you should give Sir Marcus a chance. He seems like a good man.” She smiled. “Being knighted isn’t so lofty, is it?”

Clare’s expression eased as she took up her glass of lemonade. “Perhaps not,” she said with an offhanded smile.