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was Ben asking, while looking toward the obdurately closed door.
    “The position of Lady Belfrey.”
    I actually heard Mrs. Malloy’s chin drop.
    “One of the lucky ladies will . . . if the filming goes forward . . . be awarded his hand in marriage during the final segment. That’s as Mrs. Foot, Boris, and me understand things. The director, Monsieur Georges LeBois—French like you might guess—hasn’t had much to say to us since he arrived this morning. All he’s been going on about is how bad the food has been.”
    If Mrs. Malloy hadn’t already been seated, she would have sunk into the nearest chair or wastepaper basket.
    “We can only hope the rest of the crew that just got here won’t turn their noses up at what’s on the table because it isn’t snails and frog legs.” Mr. Plunket wasn’t looking at anyone in particular; indeed, his eyes had disappeared into his gourd face.
    Clearly in desperate need of something to hold on to, Mrs. Malloy finally removed the lamp shade and her hat along with it.“You told us earlier out in the hall that they’re doing a TV reality show. Are you saying it’s one of them bachelor ones?”
    “I think he’s spelled it out,” Ben snapped at her, something he almost never does.
    “What’s the show to be called?” she inquired dreamily while crushing the shape out of the lamp shade.
    “ Here Comes the Bride .”
    “My, don’t that sound lovely! And I expect the contestants are all lovely young things with perfect figures and faces that have never been used.” She was all eager wistfulness as she continued to pulverize the hapless lamp shade.
    “Not chosen for their looks they haven’t been,” replied Mr. Plunket. “The idea, as presented to his lordship by Monsieur LeBois, was for something different from other programs of the type. That’s the attraction what they’re banking on to garner—I think that’s the word—a big audience. The contestants have been picked because of other qualities: their willingness to muck in at Mucklesfeld is how his nibs puts it. Deal with all that’s wrong with the place, pitch in with the cleanup, show they are up to the job of being Lady Belfrey while the ceilings come down about their ears.”
    “Hardly romantic.” Ben paced over to the door, opened it, and closed it again.
    “Oh, I don’t know.” I found myself sitting up on the sofa. Had I thought about it, I would have realized that neither the horrible face peering through the banisters nor the aggressive Metal Knight had terrorized my thoughts for the past few moments. “A woman with a strong practical streak can have her appeal, especially if she makes the most of her looks, something the beauties of this world don’t have to bother about, hopefully, until it is too late. Did Lord Belfrey make the selections, Mr. Plunket?”
    “That was done by Monsieur LeBois from the hundreds of written applications and photos sent in. He and his nibs met some six months ago in London, introduced by a mutual acquaintance. The idea for the show came out of their conversation. They gottogether again. You can see the mutual benefit to the winning contestant and his nibs. She’d get to become a titled lady and he’d be able to use his share of the financial proceeds from the show to set Mucklesfeld back on its feet.”
    “But now things are up in the air,” I mused.
    “They always was in a way.” Mr. Plunket oozed despondency. “Monsieur LeBois hasn’t managed as yet to get a firm commitment from any of the stations, he’s filming on spec—is how I think it’s called—but as Mrs. Foot, Boris, and me understand it, there’s been considerable interest.”
    “Is Lord Belfrey content to marry for what it can bring him?” I felt, rather than saw, Ben’s lip curl.
    “It’s how things has been done in the great families for centuries and it’s not as how his nibs is young and wild to trot. Fifty-six is what he’ll be come his next birthday. Can’t say he’s not of