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listened to the two men laughing and frowned. Many
    of her fellow ingenues were a little dull but it was not then-fault. It must be very difficult to be one moment in the schoolroom and the next expected to entertain sophisticated men of the world.
    "Then what possessed you to ask one o' these chits to dance? And a waltz, too. You'll set the match-makin' mamas in a devil of flutter you know, and —''
    "Calm yourself, Marsden. I am here on a matter concerning my half-brother's boy."
    "Young Norwood? You mean he is —? Oh, well, that's all right then. Probably suit him, marriage. Chasin' a fortune, no doubt, if you don't mind me sayin' so."
    Kit stiffened. Norwood! If Norwood was his heir, then who was this Devenish she had been listening to? She pressed closer into the flowers and peered around the column. It was her tall watchdog! Not Devil, but Devenish — of course! She should have realised it sooner.
    Then it dawned on her. His name was down in her card for the next waltz. She was the chit with more hair than conversation! Kit unclenched her teeth and took a sip of her ratafia. It tasted flat and oversweet. She set the glass aside with something of a snap. It was one thing to masquerade as a naive young girl —it was another to be called a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation^. She stiffened further as she caught the tail end of a sentence.
    "...I'm still the boy's trustee for a few more years, so if he is considering marriage, it's wise to look her over."
    Look her over! As if she was a horse or something! If he tried to inspect her teeth, she'd bite him!
    "It won't take me long to ascertain what I need from the girl..."
    Oh, won't it, indeed! Kit thought rebelliously. So Lord Norwood was chasing a fortune, was he? And his mother was sending the family watchdog to inspect Kit Singleton —ha! Well, they were certainly barking up the wrong tree if they thought Kit Singleton would bring anyone a fortune. She could set them straight in a moment on that!
    But she wouldn't! That description of her rankled. She had an irresistible desire to teach the Watchdog a lesson about judging books by their covers. If Mr Devenish had decided Kit Singleton was a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation, then who was Kit Singleton to contradict him?
    She felt a pleasurable frisson at the prospect of their dance. It would be quite soon.
    "So, Miss Singleton, are you enjoying your come-out?" Mr Devenish swung her around masterfully.
    Kit kept her eyes demurely lowered. He was by far the best dancer she had ever danced with and his shoulders more than lived up to their promise —the sensation of twirling in his arms was delicious.
    It was very clear, however, that he was unused to conversing with very young ladies; he had made no attempt to charm her and his version of polite small talk was rather like being questioned by customs officers at the border. And as the dance continued, his tone, to Kit's immense pleasure, was progressing rapidly towards that of one addressing a simpleton.
    "Your come-out, Miss Singleton," he rapped out again with a faint touch of impatience. "Are you enjoying it?"
    She murmured something indistinguishable to his waistcoat, managing, just, to keep a straight face. As a chit with more hair than wit, she was making him work very hard for his conversation. She'd barely responded to his questions, and such responses she had uttered were given in a shy whisper.
    Her tactics quite forced Mr Devenish to bend his head continuously towards her simple but elegant coiffure. Thus, he was well able to compare the amount of hair she had with the meagre wisps of conversation which had drifted up to him from the region of his waistcoat. And her hair was very short —she'd cut it all off in the heat of Batavia. Still, definitely more hair than wit...
    "Did you say you were enjoying it, or not? I didn't quite catch your response."
    "Oh, yeth," murmured Kit. She was not certain where the lisp came from,