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thought it was only people who became deranged!" She fanned herself with the lace handkerchief. "I would have been in the basket altogether, had it not been for Mr. Frobisher. I did not know where else to turn. Why I didn't think of you I can't imagine, other than my senses were so overset."
    To say that the flesh crawled on Georgie's bones as a result of this suggestion might be an overstatement, but she did allow her embroidery to drop unheeded in her lap. "Mr. Frobisher would be the theatrical gentleman?" she asked.
    "Yes." Arms held out at her side, Marigold spun around, then sank into a graceful curtsey. "He set my feet upon the stage. It was vastly interesting, Georgie! I appeared in oh-so-many productions in the provinces." She smiled as she recalled how she had advanced from appearing most often as a supernumerary ordered to play whatever walk-on part was needed, dressed in whatever old costume might be left over in the theater wardrobe, to a leading lady of whom one unkind critic had written that she was "a pretty piece of uninteresting manner, with almost enough ability to speak her lines."
    Her smile faded. What did that critic know of acting? He had never trod the boards. Nor played to so discerning an audience as the one she played to now. Marigold raised a languid hand to her pale brow. "And then, just when things were going well, poor Mr. Frobisher suffered a dreadful accident . "
    Georgie watched her friend's dramatic perambulations and wondered just how good an actress Marigold had become. That these confidences were leading somewhere, she had no doubt. "What manner of accident?"
    Marigold did not deem it of any purpose to speak of wheelbarrows and pigs and gentlemen who habitually took too much to drink. "A fatal one," she sighed. 'Truly I have tried to choose a companion for life. It is not myfault if something happens to them all. I met Sir Hubert when I was performing at Tunbridge Wells. He had gone there to nurse his gout. It was a most felicitous encounter. Sir Hubert was taken with me straightaway. And I vow I did not care a minute if he was quite old, no matter what anyone maysay."
    Georgie had not realized, until presented with these disclosures, how very dull had been the events of her own life. Marigold seemed to be awaiting some response. "Good gracious," Georgie murmured. "How very bothersome for you."
    Had there been a tinge of irony in Georgie's voice? Marigold could not be sure. The ladies were interrupted then by a tap on the door. "Enter!" Georgie called.
    Tibble tottered into the room, gingerly carrying a tray. Georgie quickly rose and rescued it from his trembling hands. "I know you wasn't wishful of being interrupted," he apologized. "But Miss Agatha would have it that you'd care for some refreshment."
    Georgie was grateful to see that her cousin's notion of appropriate refreshment was a beverage stronger than tea. "Thank you, Tibble," she said, and watched her butler make his unsteady way out the door, en route to the kitchen, where he would report that Miss Georgie's hair, always an excellent barometer of her emotions, currently made her look like an owl in an ivy bush.
    "My cousin's own ratafia. It is very potent." Georgie presented Marigold with a glass. Ratafia was a sweet cordial customarily flavored with fruit kernel or almonds. Not one to hedge her bets, Agatha made use of both.
    Marigold downed more of the beverage than was prudent. "I should have cared about his age," she muttered, and resumed her pacing. "Because he died before changing his will, and left me not so much as a brass farthing, the old coot." She caught her friend's shocked look. "That is, the old dear! You mustn’t think that I am a fortune hunter, Georgie. Sir Hubert was most amiable, and most boring, and I vow I made him a good wife. Perhaps too good, I fear! The fact of the matter is that I should have been provided for. That I was not—it was a monstrous, shabby thing."
    Georgie wondered just how Sir Hubert