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matched bays himself, and there was only one groom on the backstrap. The open carriage was well-sprung and bowled along with a gentle, swaying motion.
    The sun sparkled on varnish and metal. “It’s—it’s a very nice carriage,” said Annie, at last.
    “Yes, isn’t it,” he replied equably. “It’s a mobile map of the world in its way. The framework is made of English ash, the panels are Honduras mahogany, the footboards are American ash, the shafts are Jamaican lancewood, the wheels are Canadian hickory, and the spokes are English oak. There! I have furthered your education.”
    “Yes,” said Annie, who could not think of anything else to say.
    She slid a sideways glance at him under the shadow of her hat. He had a strong face in profile, and his long hands holding the reins seemed strong also, despite their whiteness and manicured nails.
    But everything about him was too studied, too mannered. She wondered suddenly if he really cared very strongly about anything except his clothes and his horses.
    “Would you like a motorcar?” he asked.
    “Oh, that’s just a fad, or so Papa says.”
    “I would. I’m thinking of buying one.”
    “But what would you do with your horses?”
    “Use them as well, for pleasant outings like this. Use the motorcar when I have to go to the country.”
    “I can’t imagine anyone loving one of those contraptions the way they love their horses.”
    “Oh, but they do, I assure you. In some cases, more so. Take my friend Jeffrey Withers. Now he bought a Lanchester only last year and he’s had endless trouble with it. It always seems to be breaking down. But he loves it. Although he doesn’t think of it as an ‘it,’ if you take my meaning. He thinks of it as ‘she,’ just like boats. He calls his motorcar Bessie and he talks to it day and night.
    “I passed him once on the Brighton road and he was cranking the engine like mad and saying, ‘Come along, Bessie, I know you can do it. Jeffrey loves you. Just give a little cough for old Jeffrey to show you’re alive.’”
    “You either have strange friends or you are teasing me,” said Annie. “First you tell me about someone who shaved his head bald…”
    “Bertie.”
    “Yes, Bertie. And now there’s this Jeffrey who talks to his motorcar.”
    “Never mind. Here we are. London at play.”
    Annie studied the other carriages and their occupants with great interest as they drove around by the Serpentine.
    Some of the women drove themselves. Annie twisted around to admire a pretty little blonde in a plethora of pink ruffles and pink maribou who was handling her whip like an expert. As she watched, the blonde looked fully at the marquess, gave him a saucy smile and the merest flicker of a wink, and then she trotted sedately past, the little parasol on the end of her whip, also pink to match the rest of her outfit.
    “That pretty lady winked at you,” said Annie.
    “She did? I’m flattered,” said her companion. “Now what is the name of that tree over there? I never can remember it.”
    “Ladies don’t wink,” said Annie, beginning to feel cross although she could not understand why. Perhaps it was because the blonde had reminded her of Marigold.
    “Elder, surely.”
    “Than whom?”
    “Not that elder. I mean, the name of the tree.”
    “I don’t know,” said Annie, thinking furiously. Good manners meant that she could not pursue any subject that her companion wanted to drop.
    Vague social rumors and bits of gossip began to drift through her head. About the Marquess of Torrance being a wild, young man-about-town. Of course he wasn’t young, but it seemed that all bachelors were young until they reached their dotage.
    The blonde in the pink dress had been very pretty, very pretty indeed. But not a lady. Ladies did not wink, thought Annie, folding her soft mouth into a prim line.
    “Have you indigestion, or have I said something to offend you?”
    She realized with a start that her companion had been