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her free?” Anne asked drily. She could not but think of all she herself had done to advance Ensley’s career: Was Juliana Canesford to reap all the profit of it? She consoled herself by recalling her young ladyship’s thick nose and the fat mole at the corner of her mouth.
    “Naturally,” Ensley promptly replied. “And so must she leave me.”
    “And the Denbury heir?” Anne inquired, more drily than ever.
    Taken aback again, “Well, naturally she cannot…” He seemed to lose the other end of his sentence.
    “No. Naturally not,” Anne agreed presently. She turned to face him squarely and stood gazing up at him in silence for some little while. He gazed uncomfortably down. Anne was recollecting her small store of knowledge about Juliana Canesford. She would certainly bring a substantial dowry: Everyone knew Balwarth was one of thewealthiest men in the land. And hers was an excellent old family—more than one Earl of Balwarth had distinguished himself in service to his king. But about Juliana herself Anne considered Ensley was rather too sanguine. She was a silly, romantical little chit, and the more Anne thought back on it now, the more she seemed to have seen something moony and lovestruck in Juliana’s eyes when she came trailing into the Pekin Saloon after him. She was not the sort to accept a marriage of convenience—her husband’s convenience, that is, not particularly her own—without a struggle. Unconsciously, Anne shook her head. Ensley had miscalculated.
    He interrupted her thoughts to ask what she was shaking her head at. With this he smiled hesitantly at her. He had often teased her about the way her emotions showed in her face and gestures. His smile reminded her how well they knew one another.
    “Nothing that signifies,” she lied briskly, and took his hand in both hers. She squeezed it, mustered a little smile in return, and told him almost laughingly, “We ought to go back to the others now, my dear. What will people think?”
    She had already turned to go when he objected, “But your business? You said you had something to discuss with me.”
    She stopped. “Did I?” She stood looking blank with a hand to her forehead. “Did I indeed?” She frowned.
    Anne Guilfoyle had not had a pleasant day. She had received two bits of unexpected news, neither even remotely welcome. She felt exhausted, bruised, and had a shattering head-ache; but she was not so far gone that she would blurt out, to a man who had just told her he was marrying someone else, the fact that she was destitute. Ifanything was important to her at the close of this interview with Ensley, it was to give him no reason to think of her with pity. If he must marry, let him marry. If he must play the bridegroom, let him play it. Only for God’s sake keep him from thinking that she was the loser by it. Her dignity, her poor dignity—it was all that kept her sane.
    “Upon my word, I do not remember. Very likely I merely wished to give you this.” And she stood on her toes and pecked at his long cheek. “And now I have given it, and now good night.” She smiled and, with a great effort, laughed up at him, then turned and fled the room.
    When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies some half hour later they found Miss Guilfoyle exceptionally gay. Her wit was madder, her satire keener than anyone could recall. To approach her with a joke was to touch a knife to a grindstone: She sharpened it, she threw off sparks. Nothing escaped her. She carved the assembly—Lady Juliana Canesford included—as neatly as a butcher does a side of beef, and with as little trouble from them. On the contrary, they were delighted: Tales of her heights of raillery and the bon mots she had coined circulated from mouth to ear among the London Quality for quite a week and a half afterwards.
    Number 3, Holies Street was in an uproar.
    “Every dish in the house to wrap, every rug to roll, every every thing, and two days to do it!” Mrs. Dolphim exclaimed (for