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pleasure to meet you, sirs.” The secretary was good-looking in a pretty way, but it was to Mr. Thorold that Mary’s gaze returned. The man was instantly recognizable from the portrait on the stairs, of course. But his undignified energy and good humor came as a shock. She must learn to avoid stereotypes: there was no reason on earth why a ruthless merchant who evaded taxation and smuggled Hindu artifacts could not also be a jolly paterfamilias.
    Drink in hand, Thorold lowered himself into the armchair beside Angelica’s with a deep sigh. Michael chose a place on the sofa while Mrs. Thorold remained in her chair, rather outside the conversational triangle made by the other three. There was a silence. Finally, Thorold stirred himself to ask, “Anything to report, then? What has my darling been up to today?”
    A short silence followed the question.
    “Conversation and music, Papa.” Angelica’s voice was mild. So she behaved nicely in her father’s presence, only letting loose with her mother.
    Michael Gray smiled politely. “My congratulations, Miss Quinn. You must be exceptionally well qualified, if Miss Thorold has taken a liking to you.”
    Mrs. Thorold cut in unexpectedly. “Angelica and Miss Quinn will get on charmingly.” It was definitely a command, despite her quavering voice. “And Miss Quinn will be useful at the party this Saturday.”
    “Party?” Thorold looked perplexed for a minute. Then he slapped one hand to his forehead. “But of course! The party!”
    Angelica made a face. “About that party, Papa . . . Don’t you think it’s rather poor weather for a garden party? This — this —” Her voice trailed off as she searched for a polite word for
stink.
    “Miasma?” suggested Michael.
    She ignored him. “This unseasonable heat is too much. Our guests will be most uncomfortable.”
    Mary looked at Angelica curiously. Why would a rich, bored young lady want to cancel a party?
    “It is impossible to cancel now, Mr. Thorold,” said Mrs. Thorold firmly. “The invitations went out three weeks ago.”
    “Our guests will understand our reasons for postponing,” insisted Angelica. “They can hardly be eager to crowd into a drawing room twenty feet from the Thames.”
    “Then there are the preparations to think of,” continued Mrs. Thorold as though Angelica had not spoken. “All that food ordered and the band booked and all those extra footmen and maids engaged. Not to mention the tent for the garden.”
    Thorold was looking from wife to daughter, as though at a tennis match. “You have a point,” he said, vaguely addressing both.
    “We cannot possibly cancel now; it’s far too late,” said Mrs. Thorold firmly.
    “What about your health, Mama? It’s so delicate,” said Angelica simultaneously.
    Both women turned to Thorold, awaiting a judgment. The silence stretched out for several long seconds. It was so quiet in the room that Mary heard him gulp. After what seemed like an age, he delicately cleared his throat. “Er . . . well, the thing is . . . we did — er — hum. There’s the matter of . . .”
    “Mr. Easton,” said Mrs. Thorold crisply. All heads swung to look at her, and she slumped a little in her chair. “He’s an excellent prospect for Angelica,” she continued in a weaker voice, “and very much taken with her.”
    Thorold frowned. “It would be a shame to disappoint Easton. I saw him just today, and he told me how much he looked forward to the party.”
    “A suitor with money,” pronounced Mrs. Thorold, “will make a pleasant change from the packs of fortune hunters swarming the house.”
    Thorold looked agreeable. “Told me he was after a contract in India! Clever chap . . . land of opportunity at the moment.”
    Mary leaned forward slightly, but that was all he said.
    Angelica sighed heavily.
    Michael looked at the ceiling.
    Thorold nodded once. “Very well, then. The party must go on!”

By midnight, all the Thorolds’ guests had arrived with their