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essay. Surely I appeared in a different light from all these turbaned women?
    Except, of course, that I too was wearing a turban, pinned in the style of the party with a paste brooch. He could not see when I was sitting down that my gown was of excellent cut and material. No, what he saw was another aging writer in a demmed turban, sliding now over one eye at a rakish angle. In a moment he would leave, and surely never again set foot in this establishment.
    I looked to Pepper and said, “Why do you not go and ring a peal over Lord Paton for ignoring your magazine, sir? I doubt you will have another opportunity.”
    Paton’s glance slid back to our party, but I fear Pepper was the attraction. He nodded at Pepper, said a word to Mrs. Speers, and before I had time to straighten my turban, she was leading him toward us. I felt a blush creep up my neck and surreptitiously reached up to my head. I felt the unmistakable threads of the fringe working their way loose, and probably hanging out to betray the turban’s origins.
    Mrs. Speers and her victim were upon us. The hostess, quite slurry in her speech now, said, “You know Mr. Pepper, I think, your lordship. And this is Miss Nicols, so refained. We are delighted to have nabbed her for our periodical. Ladies, Lord Paton.” Why she found it necessary to bow herself I do not know, but bow she did, more deeply than his lordship. Her feathers brushed Annie’s nose. Annie batted them away angrily.
    So many thoughts swarmed over me at once that I hardly knew what to say. The fringe was definitely loose, and beginning to tickle the back of my neck. Lord Paton’s eyes were brown, a deep, rich brown like Dutch chocolate. He must think Mrs. Speers had no upbringing, calling him “his lordship,” like an upstairs maid. His breeding overcame any propensity he must have felt to laugh at this charade.
    He said, “Delighted to meet you, Miss Nicols.”
    “This is my cousin, Miss Potter,” I said, pointing to Annie, who smiled very politely and murmured something.
    No one seemed to notice or care that I had become Miss Nicols. I quite welcomed the alias and said nothing about the mistake.
    “Miss Nesbitt has just been wondering why you never review The Ladies’ Journal, Lord Paton,” Mr. Pepper said archly.
    Lord Paton, in forgivable confusion, looked about for Miss Nesbitt. “We seldom review magazines, Mr. Pepper,” he explained. His voice was well modulated, firm, and authoritative without infringing on arrogance.
    I recalled very clearly reading something about the Edinburgh Review in a recent issue of the Quarterly and said, “They will be surprised to hear that at the Edinburgh Review!”
    The chocolate eyes settled on me with an air of surprise. No doubt he thought I spent all my time reading Mrs. Speers’s gothic novels. “I said seldom, Miss Nicols, not never. One can hardly ignore an attack on such an acknowledged genius as Coleridge.”
    “Especially when his nephew is on the board of the Review,” Pepper riposted.
    Mrs. Speers eyed the wine bottle and said, “You fool no one with that line, your lordship. We are ignored because we are ladies.”
    A sparkle of amusement lit Paton’s eyes. “Now, you must know, Madame, a gentleman never ignores a lady.”
    “Except in print, eh?” she said, and gave his arm a nudge with her elbow. “Let us sit down before we all fall down.” Her hand rose, ready to make a rush at the wine bottle. “Milord, I would be deeply honored if you would take a glass of wine before leaving.”
    “Thank you, I really must be going,” he said hastily. I assumed he had already been served his draught of turpentine.
    Mrs. Speers looked in some danger of falling over. To forestall this embarrassment, I rose and gave her my seat beside Annie, and the three elders began chatting, quite ignoring Lord Paton.
    I smiled wanly at such a wretched display of poor breeding and said, “Will you be doing an article on Mrs. Speers’s life of Madame