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strolled off down the hallway, holding hands.
    “Well, Elizabeth, it’s nice to see you again,” said Dr.Chandler, seeming to notice her for the first time. “How are Doug and Margaret?”
    “Just fine, Uncle Robert. Mother wanted me to ask if the package they sent arrived.”
    “Lord,
I
wouldn’t know, Elizabeth. I doubt if Eileen even does. You ask your Aunt Amanda in the morning. Did you see that pile of stuff on the card table?”
    Elizabeth nodded.
    “I just try to stay out of the way. How’s that wrist of yours doing?”
    “My wrist, Uncle Robert?”
    “Yes, wasn’t it you? I seem to recall one of you kids taking a tumble off that pony …”
    “Oh, my wrist! It’s fine, Uncle Robert. Just fine.” And has been since I was twelve, Elizabeth thought. She barely remembered falling off the gray pony one summer and spraining her wrist. She had run to the house crying, and Dr. Chandler had wrapped it for her. Odd that he would remember. Either his memory ran strictly to medical incidents or her tumble had been the most memorable thing she had done at Chandler Grove. The doctor had bandaged her wrist skillfully, she recalled, showing considerable patience. He had been calm and in command of the situation, very much the figure of authority. Elizabeth had not seen him that way before or since.
    Robert Chandler poured his coffee from Amanda’s silver coffee urn. “I hope you’ll excuse me,” he said pleasantly. “I have some paperwork waiting for me in the study.” He hurried out.
    “Elizabeth, would you like the leather chair?” asked Geoffrey. “I’ll bring you your coffee. Oh, Mother’s plaid blanket is draped across the back of it. Shall I move it out of your way?”
    Elizabeth smiled at the red and green cloth. “Plaid blanket! That’s the royal Stuart tartan. Leave it right where it is!”
    “What ho, Cousin Elizabeth! Do I hear the bagpipes of the Clan MacPherson?”
    Elizabeth blushed. “Well, there is a Clan MacPherson,you know. They were a branch of the Clan Chattan confederation.”
    “What’s this?” laughed Alban. “Another history buff in the family?”
    “Something far more sinister, I suspect,” said Geoffrey lightly. “I’d say that our cousin is a victim of that hereditary Southern disease, ancestor worship.”
    “I am not!” Elizabeth retorted. “Dad is interested in it. And I wanted to get him a scarf for Christmas one year in the clan tartan, so I read up on the subject. It was very interesting.”
    “Elizabeth! You mean you actually researched your family origins? Why didn’t you just claim to be descended from Bonnie Prince Charlie like all the other MacSnobs?”
    “Because he never married!” snapped Elizabeth. “The MacPhersons fought with him, though, in the Rising of 1745, and helped him to escape after Culloden.”
    “I congratulate you on your originality,” purred Geoffrey. “It seems you have been unable to escape the Southern weakness for lost causes, but at least you managed to avoid the conventional one. I would rather hear you go on about the Scottish Alamo than to hear about the Confederacy. I’ll scream if I hear one more person tell me that if we had just marched on to Washington after the first Battle of Manassas, we could have won the war in 1861.”
    “Well, we could have,” said Elizabeth. “Everybody knows that!”
    Alban started to laugh.
    “What’s so funny?” demanded Elizabeth.
    “I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” Alban managed to say. “I’m not laughing at you. You just don’t know how refreshing it is to hear somebody else get raked over the coals for being a history buff!”
    “What made you interested in Ludwig? You’re not related to him, are you?” asked Elizabeth.
    “Oh, no. English on both sides,” Alban replied. “I think it was the style of the man that attracted me. He was such an idealist, yearning for medieval beauty ina world that was quickly plunging into the plastic twentieth century.”
    “I’ll scream if