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feeling was utterly different. What to her was a prospect of excitement and unshadowed delight was to him a prison closing in, so unbearable he would risk social ruin—and very probably financial and professional ruin also—rather than endure it.
    Why? There had to be far more to it than he had told Rathbone. Was Zillah really completely different from the way she seemed?
    He looked at her again. She was certainly comely enough to please any man, and yet not so beautiful as to be vain or spoiled because of it. If she was extravagant, she would probably bring a dowry with her which would more than offset that. And her nature seemed most agreeable.
    “You must meet Mr. Melville, Sir Oliver,” she was saying enthusiastically. “I am sure you would like him. Everybody does, or nearly everybody. I would not wish to give the impression he is so obliging as to be without character or opinion. He certainly is not.”
    “You are very fond of him, aren’t you?” he said gently.
    “Oh yes!” She seemed to radiate her happiness. “I think I am the most fortunate woman in England, if not the world. He is everything I could wish. I have never felt so extremely at ease in anyone’s company, and yet at the same time so invigorated in thought and so filled with the awareness of being on the brink of the greatest adventure life has to offer.” There was not a shadow of doubt in her. “We shall be the envy of everyone in London for the blessings of our lives together. I know he will make me a perfect husband, and I shall do everything I can think of to please him and make him proud of me. I wish thatnever in all the years we shall live together should he even for an hour regret that he chose me.” She looked at him with wide, soft eyes filled with hope and trust.
    Suddenly, like a hand clenching inside him, he understood Melville’s fear. It was unbearable to think of being responsible for so much in the life of another human being, one who sees you not as the fallible, sometimes self-conscious, sometimes weary and frightened creature that you are, just as frail as they, but as some kind of cross between a genius and a saint, whose every thought bears examination and whose every act will be both wise and kind. One could never relax, never admit to weakness or doubt, never simply lose one’s temper or confess terror, failure or despair. What intolerable loneliness! And yet a loneliness without privacy.
    Was she aware of the intimate facts of life? Looking at her bright innocence, and knowing a little of the tragic lives of some of his clients, he thought very possibly not. And even if she was, could any man live up to her expectations?
    His own skin broke out in a prickle of sweat as he placed himself in Melville’s situation for a moment. Now he understood only too sharply why the young architect could not bear it. With Delphine Lambert engineering everything, her clever, prying eyes seeing every fleeting expression of her daughter’s face, nothing he said or did would go unknown. He could not ever fail in decent privacy.
    And it had been arrogant of Rathbone to imagine he could not have found himself in the same position. He was at least twelve or fifteen years older than Melville, if not more. And yet he had been neatly enough maneuvered by Mrs. Ballinger.
    “I imagine you will be very happy, Miss Lambert,” he said awkwardly. “I certainly hope you will. But …”
    She looked at him without the slightest comprehension. “But what, Sir Oliver? Can you doubt my good fortune? You would not, if you knew Killian, I promise you.”
    What could he possibly say to be even barely honest? What should he say to her? Melville had asked Rathbone to defendhim in court, should the need arise, not to conduct any negotiations to break the engagement. He might change his mind. It might simply be the sort of nervousness many people experience before marriage.
    “But nothing, Miss Lambert,” he said, shaking his head. “Perhaps I