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vulgarity might be in order, after all.
    Glawen put the idea aside; it had no real temptation for him, and his father would be embarrassed. He studied the company: his uncles, aunts and cousins of high and low degree, together with a single great-grandparent. All were arrayed in fine garments and stylish ornaments, and seemed to take pleasure in the act. The ladies wore gowns of rich fabric and feather-weave, and many displayed their jewels: alexandrites, emeralds, rubies, and carbuncles, topaz and purple tourmaline from sites about Deucas, 8 sphanctonites from dead stars, and Maidhouse crystals, found at a single site in all the expanse of the Gaean Reach.
    The gentlemen wore coats and tight trousers of soft twill in contrasting colors: often dark buff and blue, or maroon and cedar green, or black and deep mustard ocher. Among the young gallants, white shoes were all the rage, and the more dashing clasped the left side of their scalps with silver mesh from which lifted clusters of silver prongs, to striking effect. Among this latter group was Arles, who sat six places around the table from Glawen, with Spanchetta beside him.
    There could be no question as to Spanchetta’s intense and pungent vitality. Not the least of her attributes was the remarkable mass of raven-black curls, barely disciplined, which surmounted her head and swayed perilously as she looked this way and that. The placement of her glittering black eyes, close by the bridge of her nose, accentuated the expanse of her marmoreal cheeks. Today she wore a magenta gown, cut low to display the white pillar of her neck and a good deal of what depended below. Spanchetta had darted a single glance toward Glawen which assimilated every detail of his appearance; then, with a faint sniff, she looked away and paid him no further heed.
    Next beside Spanchetta sat Millis, her mild and diffident husband, distinguished principally by his drooping ash-blond mustache. He was now concerned with the problem of drinking wine without wetting his mustache.
    Fratano stood at the side table reserved to retired Clattucs, making polite conversation with his father, Damian, a long-retired Past Master, now well over ninety years old. Resemblance between the two was striking; both were gaunt, pallid, high of forehead, long of nose, upper lip and chin.
    The table was almost full. Only Garsten and Jalulia, Glawen’s grandparents, were not yet present. The footmen poured wine for Glawen and Scharde, Green Zoquel and Rimbaudia, both Clattuc wines, and prizewinners at last year’s Parilia. Glawen essayed a goodly gulp of the Zoquel, which caused Scharde surprise and mild alarm. “The wine is strong! Much more and you’ll be snoring on the table with your hair in the soup!”
    “I’ll be careful.” Glawen shifted his position and tugged at his new coat, which felt stiff and tight, while the new trousers not only constricted his shanks, but rode high in the crotch, causing him acute discomfort. Such, he told himself was the price one paid for the enjoyment of high style, and little could be done about it. He forced himself to sit quietly, hands in his lap. Arles bent down his head and turned him a pursy grin. No matter if Housemaster Fratano fixed his SI at 50. Glawen swore that he would betray emotion by not so much as a twitch.
    Minutes went by at a slow march. Fratano continued to chat with Damian. Garsten and Jalulia still had not arrived. Glawen sighed. Would dinner never be served? He looked around the table. Never had his senses seemed so alert, nor his perceptions so keen! He studied the faces of his kin. All were strangers. Remarkable! It was as if a curtain had slipped, revealing, if only for an instant, truths not intended for his knowing. . .  Glawen sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling. An odd but useless notion. Foolishness, of course. He essayed another sip of wine. Scharde made no comment.
    Voices rose and fell, or lapsed momentarily into silence, as if everyone had