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to me. Instead I took the roast swan that was heaped upon my platter. The Duke of Buckingham turned to me, his glass in his hand.
    "I wish you many many happy returns of the day," he said. I murmured my thanks and shook my curls to hide my flaming cheeks.
    "Merely a formality," said Richard Grenvile in my ear. "Don't let it go to your head. George has a dozen mistresses already and is in love with the Queen of France. "
    He ate with evident enjoyment, villifying his neighbours with every mouthful, and because he did not trouble to lower his voice I could swear that his words were heard.
    I tasted nothing of what I ate or drank, but sat like a bewildered fish throughout the long repast. At length the ordeal was over, and I felt myself pulled to my feet by my companion. The wine, which I had swallowed as though it were water, had made jelly of my legs, and I was obliged to lean upon him for support. I have scant memory indeed of what followed next. There were music and singing, and some Sicilian dancers, strung about with ribbons, performed a tarantella, but their final dizzy whirling was my undoing, and I have shaming recollection of being assisted to some inner apartment of the castle, suitably darkened and discreet, where nature took her toll of me and the roast swan knew me no more. I opened my eyes and found myself upon a couch, with Richard Grenvile holding my hand and dabbing my forehead with his kerchief.
    "You must learn to carry your wine," he said severely. I felt very ill and very shamed, and tears were near the surface. "Ah, no," he said, and his voice, hitherto so clipped and harsh, was oddly tender, "you must not cry. Not on your birthday." He continued dabbing at my forehead with the kerchief.
    "I have n-never eaten roast swan b-before," I stammered, closing my eyes in agony at the memory.
    "It was not so much the swan as the burgundy," he murmured. "Lie still now, you will be easier by and by."
    In truth, my head was still reeling, and I was as grateful for his strong hand as I would have been for my mother's. It seemed to me in no wise strange that I should be lying sick in a darkened unknown room with Richard Grenvile tending me, proving himself so comforting a nurse.
    "I hated you at first. I like you better now," I told him.
    "It's hard that I had to make you vomit before I won your approval," he answered.
    I laughed and then fell to groaning again, for the swan was not entirely dissipated.
    "Lean against my shoulder so," he said to me. "Poor little one, what an ending to an eighteenth birthday." I could feel him shake with silent laughter, and yet his voice and hands were strangely tender, and I was happy with him.
    "You are like your brother Bevil after all," I said.
    "Not I," he answered. "Bevil is a gentleman, and I a scoundrel. I have always been the black sheep of the family."
    "What of Gartred?" I asked.
    "Gartred is a law unto herself," he replied. "You must have learnt that when you were a little child and she wedded to your brother."
    "I hated her with all my heart," I told him.
    "Small blame to you for that," he answered me.
    "And is she content, now that she is wed again?" I asked him.
    "Gartred will never be content," he said. "She was born greedy, not only for money, but for men too. She had an eye to Antony Deny s, her husband now, long before your brother died."
    "And not only Antony Denys," I said.
    "You had long ears for a little maid," he answered.
    I sat up, rearranging my curls, while he helped me with my gown. "You have been kind to me," I said, grown suddenly prim and conscious of my eighteen years. "I shall not forget this evening."
    "Nor I either," he replied.
    "Perhaps," I said, "you had better take me to my brothers."
    "Perhaps I had," he said.
    I stumbled out of the little dark chamber to the lighted corridor.
    "Where were we all this while?" I asked in doubt, glancing over my shoulder.
    He laughed and shook his head. "The good God only knows," he answered, "but I wager it is the