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must be seen to be a great deal better and a great deal brighter than anybody else. An earl’s daughter, perhaps, can afford to be somewhat stupid or peevish or to have her little whims – can even afford a little misdemeanour every so often. But when one is not quite the daughter of an earl … Well then – one has to be very, very good sometimes – well nigh perfect, in fact, to be thought even good enough. One has to positively shine like a star – alas – if one wishes to be seen at all. One has to run rather fast, in fact, in order not to stand still, if one happens to lack – well – you know, darling – rank, and position, and bundles of money in the bank. Or the bank itself, of course, which would be even better. Do remember that.’
    She had remembered.
    â€˜And one more thing, my darling …’ Evangeline’s eyes had been cool and clear, her voice infinitely serene. ‘One must speak the truth, of course. Everybody knows that. Just as everybody knows there are some things of which one does not speak at all. A lady never tells her age, for instance, nor expresses any particular opinion about anything controversial. Not in public, at any rate, she does not. Therefore offending no one. Just as one offers no details of one’s private life – so vulgar – and certainly never enquires such details of others. One keeps one’s privacy strictly where it belongs – to oneself. It is not telling lies. Just good manners. You do see …?’
    â€˜I see, mamma.’
    She had remembered that too.
    â€˜Mrs Blake is much afflicted with the migraine,’ she had told a new and particularly sharp-eyed parlourmaid during those uneasy weeks after Eva Stangway’s death when her bereaved husband had seemed in no haste to make firm promises about taking another bride.
    â€˜My mother is most unwell,’ she had told Matthew Stangway himself when he had called in answer to the third or fourth letter Evangeline had artfully penned him. And, leading him to the darkened bedchamber, the anguished bedside, she had left him to endure the reproaches of a woman who, while accusing him in fading tones of ruining her, had certainly made up her mind to ruin him should he fail to see the error of his ways.
    â€˜You are going to marry me, Matthew?’
    â€˜Am I, Evangeline?’
    Oriel had tiptoed away, not caring to hear more, never doubting for a moment that her mother would prevail. And the next morning the migraine was gone, Evangeline weakened rather becomingly by pain but sitting up in bed to partake, quite heartily, of her tea and toast nevertheless.
    â€˜Oriel darling, you will hardly believe it, but our dear, old Mr Stangway has asked me to think about being his wife …’
    â€˜And shall you accept him, mamma?’
    Evangeline, her eyes gleaming, her mouth lifting at its corners with her purring smile, had savoured the question at her leisure. As Oriel had known she would.
    â€˜Ah well – who knows? We have been acquainted for so long and I suppose the poor man is lonely, now, in that positive palace of a house with his cranky old sister. Perhaps it would be a kindness.’
    â€˜Very likely, mamma.’
    â€˜Oh – do you think so? It would mean moving north, of course.’
    â€˜We have moved so many times, mamma.’
    â€˜Indeed. But only to pleasant places. Whereas Hepplefield …’ She shuddered. ‘And I suppose it would have to be Hepplefield, to begin with. Such a grim, grey place, you cannot imagine. Full of grey-minded people too, who would feel obliged to burn me at the social stake if I dared to marry him before his first year of mourning is through. Thank goodness it is he who has suffered the bereavement, not I , since women are expected to mourn for so much longer. Two years in black and then another year in lavender. Quite horrid. So I fear we will have to put up with a small house in