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“You will have heard of him, of course. He is one of the richest men in England.”
    â€œIs he?” Celia said politely. “In that case, we must send him one of our letters begging for a donation. Is he a charitable man, your father?”
    â€œOf course. But he only gives to the deserving poor,” Lucasta replied haughtily. “I hardly think you qualify, Miss St. Lys.”
    â€œBut it is not for me , Miss Tinsley,” Celia protested. “I am neither poor nor deserving. It is for the children of the London Foundling Hospital; they are poor and deserving. Indeed, it is a cause near and dear to my heart. Every summer, we hold a benefit for the children.”
    â€œOne does like to give back, doesn’t one?” said the duchess, smiling complacently.
    Lucasta sneered. “Foundlings! You mean those horrid little creatures that are dropped in the streets by their parents to be fed and clothed at the expense of the public? My father says it is a mistake to encourage such practices by feeding the wretches.”
    â€œGood Lord, Miss Tinsley!” said Celia, prettily taken aback. “May I ask who, if anyone, is included in your father’s idea of the deserving poor?”
    â€œMy father believes that the good Lord helps those who help themselves.”
    â€œThe good Lord may indeed help those who help themselves,” Celia agreed, “but I think that we have a duty to help those who cannot help themselves.”
    â€œI agree,” said Dorian.
    â€œAre we going to settle our bet or not?” Lucasta said impatiently.
    â€œHave you a bet?” Celia asked, smiling.
    â€œNot I,” Dorian said quickly. “Miss Tinsley and my mother have.”
    â€œAnd we need you to settle it for us,” said Lucasta.
    â€œYou will help us, won’t you, Miss St. Lys?” said the duchess.
    â€œCertainly, ma’am, if it lies within my power.”
    â€œThe fact is, this young lady bet me ten pounds that your golden hair is not your own, my dear,” said the duchess. “I do not often take bets, but in this case, I felt I could not refuse.”
    â€œYou are not offended, I hope, Miss St. Lys?” Dorian asked anxiously.
    â€œNot at all, Your Grace,” she assured him. “I myself like a good wager now and then.”
    â€œI should be very glad to give my winnings to the New-foundlanders,” put in the duchess.
    â€œFoundlings, Your Grace. Thank you.”
    â€œYou have not won yet ,” said Lucasta. “I still say it is a wig.”
    Celia smiled at her. “Why don’t you give it a tug?” she said.
    Miss Tinsley accepted the invitation with alacrity. Marching up to Celia, she yanked her hair hard enough to make the actress wince in pain.
    â€œAre you all right, Miss St. Lys?” Dorian asked.
    â€œShe’s fine,” said Fitzclarence. “Aren’t you, Celia?”
    â€œI trust this settles your bet for you, Miss Tinsley,” said Celia.
    â€œYes, of course it does,” said the duchess. “You may give Miss St. Lys ten pounds for the founderlings.”
    â€œI do not have it with me,” Lucasta said crossly.
    â€œNo matter,” said the duchess. “Dorian can take it to Miss St. Lys tomorrow. What is your address, my dear?”
    â€œEighty-four Curzon Street,” Celia replied.
    â€œCurzon Street,” the duchess repeated, impressed. “How delightfully convenient. Why, Dorian, she is practically on our doorstep.”
    Lucasta scowled.
    â€œI think now we must leave Miss St. Lys in peace,” said Dorian.
    The duchess dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Come here, my dear,” she said to Celia. “Take my fan.” She held it out. “I want to make you a present of it. Come, child. You are not afraid of me, are you?”
    Celia went forward and took the fan. “You are very beautiful, my dear,” the duchess said softly. “I wish