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“Love is not perfection,” he said. “It is tolerance, dreams past, and the future shared. A great deal of it, my dear, is friendship, if it is to last. There is nothing more precious than true friendship. It is the rock upon which all other loves must stand, if they are to endure. She should have made her own decision, not have it made for her by someone else’s desperate realization of defeat.”
    She did not answer. His words filled her mind and left no room for any of her own.
    Ten minutes later when Isobel still had not appeared, Vespasia decided to go and fetch her. She went back up the stairs and along the west corridor to Isobel’s room. She knocked and, when there was no answer, turned the handle and went in.
    Isobel was standing before the long glass, looking critically at herself. She was not beautiful, but she had a great grace, and in her bronze-and-black gown she looked magnificent, more striking, more dramatic than Gwendolen ever had. Vespasia saw for the first time that that was precisely the trouble. Bertie Rosythe did not want a dramatic wife. He might like to play with fire, but he did not wish to live with it. Isobel could never have won.
    â€œIf you do not come now, you are going to be late,” Vespasia said calmly.
    Isobel swung around, startled. She had obviously been expecting the return of her maid.
    â€œI haven’t decided if I am coming yet,” she replied. “I didn’t hear you knock!”
    â€œI daresay you were too deep in your own thoughts.” Vespasia brushed it aside. “You must come,” she insisted. “If you don’t, you will be seen as having run away, and that would be an admission of guilt.”
    â€œThey think I am guilty anyway,” Isobel said bitterly. “Don’t pretend you cannot see that! Even you with so …”
    Vespasia had been at fault. “I did not intend my remarks to give them that opening,” she answered. “I am truly sorry for that. It was far clumsier than I meant it to be.”
    Isobel kept her head turned away. “I daresay they would have come to the same place anyway, just taken a little longer. But it would have been easier for me had the final blow not come from a friend.”
    â€œThen you may consider yourself revenged,” Vespasia said. “I am subtly chastened, and guilty of my own sin. Are you now coming down to dinner? The longer you leave it, the more difficult it will be. That is the truth, whoever is to blame for anything.”
    Isobel turned around very slowly. “Why are you wearing purple, for heaven’s sake? Is anyone else in mourning?”
    Vespasia smiled bleakly. “Of course not. No one foresaw the necessity of bringing it. I am wearing purple because it suits me.”
    â€œEverything suits you!” Isobel retorted.
    â€œNo, it doesn’t. Everything I wear suits me, because I have enough sense not to wear what doesn’t. Now put on your armor, and come to dinner.”
    â€œArmor!”
    â€œCourage, dignity, hope—and enough sense not to speak unless you are spoken to, and not to try to be funny.”
    â€œFunny! I couldn’t laugh if Lord Salchester performed handstands on the lawn!”
    â€œYou could if Lady Warburton choked on the soup.”
    Isobel smiled wanly. “You’re right,” she agreed. “I could.”
    But dinner was a nightmare. Aside from Omegus, no one greeted Isobel. It was as if they had not seen her, even though she came down the great staircase, dark satins rustling, and the outswept edge of her skirts actually brushed those of Blanche Twyford because she did not move to allow her past. A moment later, as Vespasia passed, Blanche stepped aside graciously.
    The conversation was free-flowing, but Isobel was not included. She spoke once, but no one appeared to hear her.
    When the butler announced that dinner was served, Omegus offered her his arm, because it was