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Muffy says the London gentlemen often participate in fisticuffs, swordwork and marksmanship contests, even hold races. But the young women are not permitted to view these activities, or the unclad males, so how can they select the mate who is strongest, fittest, fastest, best able to protect them and their children? The debutantes are not permitted to be alone with the men, no, not even to dance more than twice in an evening with the same partner. How can they make a proper choice? No wonder they have so many ugly babies.
    Muffy calls me naive. They choose for two things, she says, purity and property. The sexes are kept so firmly apart because chastity in females is valued above beauty or intelligence. There are chaperons and open doors and enough rules to choke a Chihuahua. This I can understand. A male wants to know that his own progeny will inherit his property, not some other stud's in the stable. The females accept this because property means possessions and power in London, and security for their families. A man does not have to be as brave as a bull, as strong as a stag, as fast as a falcon, as smart as a dog, to win the maiden of his choice. He has to be rich. The wealthier the female, the wealthier the male has to be to prove he can provide for her.
    In her descriptions of the marriage contracts, Muffy has never mentioned anything about affection, devotion, or respect, which is not surprising for a cat. I question the absence of love in these negotiations, however, since mankind has made so much of that emotion over their centuries. Muffy just laughs. I shall wait until visiting Almack's to see for myself.
    While I am looking forward to the Metropolis and exploring its possibilities, Miss Sonia does not share my enthusiasm. Her steps lag, her words come slower, her mouth droops. She grieves at the loss of her home, and I am sorry. I drop my bowl into her half-filled trunk to say, "Don't be afraid, I am coming with you." She smiles, but I can see she is sad. She's torn, having to leave her beloved father to make him happy, feeling guilt that his joy causes her pain. She does not understand: he is not her mate, she is not his dog. I lick her nose.
     
    "Well, let me take a look at you, girl." The old lady raised her lorgnette and motioned for Sonia to turn around, like a horse on the auction block. "Now let me see a curtsy," she barked.
    Sonia dipped into a bow suitable for royalty, and only ruined the graceful effect by making the obeisance to the dog at her side instead of toward her grandmother. Fitz lowered his head, as he'd been taught. Lady Atterbury made a sound almost like a chuckle. "You'll do. The hair is atrocious, of course, that sunburned skin is an abomination, and whoever had the dressing of you should take up upholstering. What do you think, Bigelow?"
    Lady Atterbury's abigail, as venerable in her starched black uniform and lace apron as her employer was in taffeta and turban, made her own inspection. Sonia held her breath. "Monsieur Gautier. Lemon juice mixed with strawberries. Celeste's. Breathing lessons."
    "See to it," the dowager said, as if making a silk purse out of a sow's ear overnight were as easy as matching ribbons. Lady Atterbury nodded to Bigelow, dismissing the poor woman to her Herculean task, then raised the looking glass again.
    "And I suppose this is the animal that stirred the bumble-bath in the first place."
    With a slight hand gesture Sonia had Fitz approach her grandmother's chair, sit, and offer his paw for shaking. Her Grace twitched her skirts aside. "A gentleman always waits for a lady to offer her hand first, Sonia. Remember that."
    "Yes, Grandmama," Sonia said, ordering Fitz back to her side. "But he truly is a well-behaved dog. He won't cause anyone any trouble at all."
    "Well, it's all the rage for ladies to carry their pets around with them. Margaret Todd even brought her parrot to tea at Devonshire House, I understand. All the unmarried women had to flee the room when it