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laugh at him for it.
    Caryll interrupted his thoughts. “I think we shall be another hour at the most.”
    â€œWhere do you stay, sir?” Alexander asked, rousing himself.
    â€œAt my Lord Petre’s house on Arlington Street,” came the reply.
    Lord Petre, Alexander repeated to himself. Baron Petre of Ingatestone. Heir to one of the greatest Catholic families in England. “I believe that you once were Lord Petre’s guardian, sir,” Alexander said.
    â€œUntil he came of age two years ago,” Caryll replied.
    Alexander had met Lord Petre at John Caryll’s house at Ladyholt once, when he could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen. It was not easily forgotten. Petre had been on his way to London, and Alexander remembered him jumping down from his horse, throwing the reins carelessly to a groom, and walking with a long, confident stride to greet Caryll and his wife. He had been very tall. Alexander was standing shyly to one side when at last Petre caught sight of him. How vividly he recalled his expression. He had started with surprise, and stared, and then tried to cover over his discomfort in vigorous talk. Alexander had been trying to stand so that his stooped back could not be seen. But of course it was impossible to hide it. In the country, his figure had become familiar, but in town scenes such as this would begin again. Others would look at him as Petre had once done.
    â€œIs His Lordship presently in town?” Alexander asked.
    â€œHe remains in the country for the sport,” Caryll replied.
    Alexander was glad that he would not have to meet the baron again. He wondered whether he had married—what a prize he would be considered. He tried to imagine the sort of woman Petre might fall in love with. She would be remarkable indeed.
    He was about to ask Caryll whether Lord Petre had a wife, but the carriage gave a violent lurch and dropped onto the London streets. Its axles cracking as though they would break in half, they teetered and tumbled across the cobbles. The streets were filled with hackney carriages being driven in sudden stops and starts, loping from side to side on their loose springs, the passengers inside contorting themselves uncomfortably in an attempt to look dignified. Mud was splayed against the carriage sides and onto the window. Alexander began to feel ill.
    It was very kind of John Caryll to imperil his carriage by bringing it into town, but Alexander found himself wishing that he was not always in the debt of one friend or another. He dreaded being the kind of man who needed favors; a person could only get so far by being an object of charity. Too much pity prevented a man from making enemies, and no one had ever become famous without also being pretty thoroughly envied and disliked.
    When at last they drew up outside Jervas’s town house, Jervas’s butler rushed to help Alexander down, and he was pleased at the prospect of the good fire and excellent dinner waiting inside. He suspected indeed that part of his host Charles Jervas’s delight in having guests was that it gave him an excuse always to be having another little something to eat and drink.
    â€œGood afternoon, Hill,” Alexander said, putting a piece of silver into the servant’s hand as he took his arm. Caryll drove away immediately, and Alexander allowed Hill to help him into the hallway.
    â€œWelcome back to town, sir,” Hill said. “Mighty chilly today.”
    What a civilized place Charles Jervas’s house was, Alexander thought as he walked inside: elegantly furnished, with a robust masculine taste; excellent paintings in the hall and the reception rooms; a good cook and fine servants; and a light studio at the top of the house where Jervas painted. It was exactly what a gentleman’s establishment should be. As Charles walked down the handsome staircase to greet him, Alexander felt a smart of envy. Jervas was wearing a housecoat with velvet