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nose with the back of his hand. He was probably going to catch a cold from all this, which would not only serve him right, but also provide a convenient excuse for his absence from his usual haunts that night.
    Prophetically, Bertram was saying, 'Of course hell have some excuse, he always does. Sometimes I wonder whether he isn't off with someone else.' More soothing noises. 'Well, you know his reputation. I don't know why I bother, sometimes....'
    Suddenly, Olivia's voice came strikingly clear. 'You bother because he's beautiful, and because he appreciates you as none of the others have.'
    'He's clever,' Bertram said gruffly. 'I'm not sure it's the same thing. And you, my dear,' he said gallantly; both of them near the window now, two long dark silhouettes staining the curtains, 'are both beautiful and clever.'
    'Appreciative,' Olivia amended. And then, more softly, so that Michael had to guess at all the words, 'and not quite beautiful enough.'
    Bertram's voice grew at once less distinct and louder; he must have turned away, but was practically shouting, 'I won't have you blaming yourself for that! We've been over this before, Olivia; it's not your fault and I don't want to hear you talking like that!'
    It had all the marks of an old argument. 'Don't tell me that, tell your father!' Her well-bred voice retained its rounded tones, but the pitch was shriller, the tempo faster, carrying through the glass with no difficulty.
    'He's been waiting six years for an heir! He'd have made you divorce me by now if it wasn't for the dowry!'
    'Olivia-'
    'Lucy has five children! Five!! Davenant can keep his bedroom full of boys, nobody cares, because he does his duty by her... but you - '
    'Olivia, stop it!'
    'You - where is your heir going to come from? Michael Godwin? Well it's going to have to come from Michael Godwin because we know it isn't going to come from anywhere else!'
    Oh, god, thought Michael, hands pressed to his mouth; And there he is out on the balcony___He looked longingly at the ground, not at all sure now that he could manipulate the drainpipe again. He was stiff and chilled from crouching there in one position.
    But he had to get out of there. He didn't want to hear any more of this.
    For the third time that night he hooked his legs around the drainpipe of the Rossillion townhouse, and began to work his way down it. The pipe seemed slipperier this time, perhaps smoothed from his earlier passings. He felt himself losing his grip, imagined falling the ten feet into the shrubbery._
    His upper lip prickled with sweat as he eased his grip to hunt for surer anchor - and one booted foot swung wildly out, and collided with a window shutter in a desperate rattle and a conclusive thump, shattering the stillness of the winter night.
    He thought of shouting,
    It's only a rabbit!' His feet hit the ground achingly flat, and he staggered to his knees in the low bushes. A dog was barking frantically inside the house. He wondered if he could make it to the front gate in time to pretend that he had just been passing by and heard the noise... but the front gate would already be locked at this hour, bis feet remembered, making with all speed for the orchard wall, which Bertram had mentioned needed repairing.
    The dog's bark rang crystalline in the cold air.
    Past the skeletons of pear trees Michael saw a dip in the wall, surmounted by crumbling mortar. It wasn't that high, just about at eye level. He flung himself at it, arms first to pull his body over - and the mortar gave way, crumbling beneath him as he slipped neatly over it like a salmon over a dam.
    The wall was considerably higher on the other side; he had just , enough time to wonder when he was going to stop failing before he hit the ground, and rolled the rest of the way down the embankment to the street, where he was nearly run over by a carriage.
    The carriage stopped, its horses registering protest. From within a furious voice, male, shouted out fierce expletives and demands