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the other six never got written, or published—I can well believe it!—or something. No doubt Spencer died of boredom. I don’t know how you can tolerate that fellow.”
    “I have no particular fondness for Spencer.”
    “I mean Sylvester.”
    “You invited him—just why you did so is unclear, but having done it, you must be polite.”
    “Why must I? Is it polite for him to bethump a man with an hour of the Faerie Queene?”
    “Is it polite for you to ramble on forever about your Guernseys?”
    He looked chastened. “Do I ramble? Tell me the next time I do it. I would not knowingly trespass on anyone’s patience the way that fellow does. Can the man talk nothing but poetic drivel?”
    She reined in her temper. “All things look yellow to the jaundiced eye, Harry.”
    “I doubt it is my jaundiced eye that makes that jacket so—yellow!”
    “What I meant is, to some of us, poetry is not drivel. And there is nothing amiss in Lord Sylvester’s jacket. I think it is quite stylish.”
    “Then it is high time you had that visit to London.”
    “There is no reason a gentleman need dress like an undertaker when he is out enjoying himself.”
    He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Good Lord, you’re serious! I thought I knew you pretty well, Roz. I had no notion you were— romantical,” he said, flinging out his hand in disgust.
    “I, on the other hand, always knew you were a Philistine, interested in nothing but cows and pigs and whoring around with loose women.”
    A smile quirked the corner of his lips. “You forgot politics. I once wrote a letter to the Times.”
    “Yes, about cows.”
    “About enclosures!”
    “You just wanted the extra acres as pasture for your herd.”
    He noticed that her eyes were flashing and her bosom heaving. “Your chest is heaving, Roz,” he said, gazing at it with keen interest.
    “That is no excuse to stare! I’m sure you’ve seen many a bosom before.”
    “Not your bosom, though. That gown you wore this afternoon was a tad risqué as well. When did you start wearing stylish gowns?” he demanded irately.
    “When I learned Lord Sylvester was coming to visit,” she replied, to annoy him.
    “Aha! So you are after him!” Harwell felt a wince of some unpleasant emotion he did not care to identify too closely. It certainly wasn’t jealousy. No sane man could be jealous of that popinjay. His masculine pride was injured, perhaps. Roz had never bothered to make herself pretty for him.
    “What if I am?” she asked, with a memory of Dick’s impending marriage. Harwell’s mouth fell open in shock. “I find him quite charming.”
    “He might be tolerable, when he grows up and learns the difference between a monologue and conversation. He’s still wet behind the ears. Living in a world of make-believe. Of course, he’s only two and twenty, he tells me. I would have thought eighteen or nineteen was closer to it.”
    Rosalind had thought he was a little older, perhaps twenty-five, but she didn’t intend to let Harwell know it. It was Sylvester’s encyclopedic knowledge of poetry that had misled her.
    “He is two years younger than I am,” she said. “I was not considered a babe in arms last year when you made me help you get rid of Mrs. Molson by pretending to be on the edge of an engagement to you. Or two years ago, when you were in London and I arranged the offer to purchase Elder’s farm for you. Or five years ago when—”
    “I take your point, Roz. I have abused our friendship. I am sorry.”
    “That’s not what I mean! We are discussing my age and Lord Sylvester’s. He’s not a child.”
    “Well, he acts like one, and apparently his family knows it. He don’t come into his estate for another three years, when he’s twenty-five. No doubt that is why he dunned me for a thousand pounds for Camena. Foolish name. How is one to know from a name like that that it’s about poetry? He’s trying to con folks into thinking it’s something