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  ‘Yes?’ said Alverstoke encouragingly, the amusement deepening in his eyes.

  Mr Trevor seemed to find it difficult to express himself; but after a pause, during which he obviously conjured up a heavenly vision, he said earnestly: ‘Sir, I have never before seen, or – or even dreamed of such a lovely girl! Her eyes! So big, and of such a blue! Her hair! like shining gold! The prettiest little nose, too, and her complexion quite exquisite! And when she spoke –’

  ‘But what were her ankles like?’ interrupted his lordship.

  Mr Trevor blushed, and laughed. ‘I didn’t see her ankles, sir, for she remained in the carriage. I was particularly struck by the sweetness of her expression, and her soft voice. In fact, there is something very taking about her – if you know what I mean!’

  ‘I have a very fair notion.’

  ‘Yes, well – well, when she leaned forward, and smiled, and begged me to give the letter to you, I promised her I would do so – even though I knew you wouldn’t be above half pleased!’

  ‘You wrong me, Charles. I confess you haven’t aroused the smallest desire in me to make Miss Merriville’s acquaintance, but I must certainly meet her companion. Who, by the way, is she?’

  ‘I am not perfectly sure, sir, but I fancy she might be Miss Merriville’s sister, though she is not at all like her. Miss Merriville called her Charis.’

  ‘That confirms me in my dislike of Miss Merriville. Of all abominable abbreviations I think Carrie the most repulsive!’

  ‘No, no!’ expostulated Mr Trevor. ‘You misunderstood me, sir! Of course it isn’t Carrie! Miss Merriville distinctly said Charis! And I thought that never was anyone more aptly named, for it means “grace”, you know – from the Greek!’

  ‘Thank you, Charles,’ said his lordship meekly. ‘Where should I be without you?’

  ‘I thought you might have forgotten, sir – your memory being so bad!’

  The Marquis acknowledged this demure hit by lifting one of his strong, slender hands in a fencer’s gesture. ‘Very well, Charles – damn your impudence!’

  Encouraged, Mr Trevor said: ‘Miss Merriville said she hoped you would call in Upper Wimpole Street, sir: will you?’

  ‘I daresay – if you can assure me that I shall find the beautiful Charis there.’

  Mr Trevor was unable to do this, but he knew better than to urge the matter further, and withdrew, not unhopeful of the issue.

  Thinking it over, later, it occurred to him that in exposing Charis to Alverstoke’s destructive notice he might be doing her a vast disservice. He was not afraid that Alverstoke would try to seduce a gently-born female of tender years, however beautiful she might be: his lordship’s gallantries did not include such wanton acts as that; but he did fear that he might, if Charis captured his fancy, lure her into one of his à suivie flirtations, bestowing a flattering degree of attention upon her and perhaps leading her to think that he had formed a lasting passion for her. Remembering Charis’s melting look, and appealing smile, Mr Trevor felt that her heart could easily be broken, and his conscience smote him. Then he reflected that she could hardly be alone in the world, and decided that her protection from a notorious flirt might safely be left to her parents. Besides, very young females ranked high on the list of the things Alverstoke rated as dead bores. As for Miss Merriville, Mr Trevor felt that she was very well able to take care of herself. He had been dazzled by her beautiful companion, but he retained a vague impression of a self-possessed female, with a slightly aquiline nose, and an air of friendly assurance. He did not think that she would be easily taken-in. Further reflection convinced him that no attempt would be made to trifle with her affections: it was unlikely that so noted a connoisseur of beauty as Alverstoke would deem her worthy of a second glance. In fact, it was even more unlikely that he would in any way bestir himself on her behalf.

  After several days, during which his lordship made no mention of her, and certainly did not go to pay her a morning call, it began to seem as though he had either decided to ignore her, or had forgotten her existence. Mr Trevor knew that it was his duty to remind him, but he refrained, feeling that the moment was unpropitious. His lordship had been obliged to endure three visits – two from his elder sisters, and one from his heir’s widowed mother – all of which had bored him so much that every member of his household took great pains not to put him out of temper. ‘For I assure you, Mr Wicken,’ said his lordship’s top-lofty valet, condescending to his lordship’s butler, ‘that when he is nettled his lordship can create quite a humdurgeon, as they say.’

  ‘I am well aware of that, Mr Knapp,’ returned his colleague, ‘being as I have been acquainted with his lordship from his cradle. He reminds me of his father, the late lord, but you, of course, didn’t know him,’ he added, depressing pretension.

  His lordship had indeed been sorely tried. Lady Buxted, never one to accept defeat, had come to Alverstoke House, on the flimsiest of pretexts, accompanied by her eldest daughter, who, failing to soften her uncle’s heart by cajolery, had dissolved into tears. But as she was not one of those few, fortunate females who could cry without rendering themselves hideous he was as impervious to her tears as to his sister’s account of the straitened circumstances to which she had been reduced. Only penury, Lady Buxted declared, had compelled her to apply to her brother for his assistance in the all-important duty of launching her dearest Jane into the ton. But her brother, speaking with the utmost amiability, told her that parsimony, not penury, was the correct word; upon which her ladyship lost her temper, and gave him what James, the first footman, who was waiting in the hall, described to his immediate subordinate as a rare bear-garden jaw.

  Mrs Dauntry was his lordship’s second visitor. Like Lady Buxted, she was a widow; and she shared her cousin’s conviction that it was Alverstoke’s bounden duty to provide for her offspring. There the resemblance between them ended. Lady Buxted was frequently designated, by the vulgar, as a hatchet; but no one could have applied such a term to Mrs Dauntry, who presented an appearance of extreme fragility, and bore with noble fortitude all the trials which beset her. As a girl she had been an accredited beauty, but a tendency to succumb to infectious complaints had encouraged her to believe that her constitution was sickly; and it was not long after her marriage that she began (as Lady Jevington and Lady Buxted unkindly phrased it) to quack herself. Her husband’s untimely demise had set the seal on her ill-health: she became the subject of nervous disorders, and embarked on a series of cures and diets, which, since they included such melancholy remedies as goat’s whey (for an imagined consumption), soon reduced her to wraith-like proportions. By the time she was forty she had become so much addicted to invalidism that unless some attractive entertainment was offered her she spent the better part of her days reclining gracefully upon a sofa, with a poor relation in attendance, and a table beside her crowded with bottles and phials which contained Cinnamon Water, Valerian, Asafoetida Drops, Camphorated Spirits of Lavender, and any other paregoric or restorative recommended to her by her friends or by the maker’s advertisement. Unlike Lady Buxted, she was neither ill-tempered nor hardfisted. She had a faint, plaintive voice which, when she was thwarted, merely became fainter and more exhausted; and she was as ready to squander fortunes upon her children as upon herself. Unfortunately, her jointure (described by the Ladies Jevington and Buxted as an easy competence) was not large enough to enable her to live, without management and economy, in the style to which, she said, she was accustomed; and as she was too invalidish to study these arts, she was for ever outrunning the constable. She had been Alverstoke’s pensioner for years; and although heaven knew how much she wished to be independent of his generosity she could not but feel that since her handsome son was his heir it was his duty to provide also for her two daughters.

  As the elder of these, Miss Chloë Dauntry, was some weeks short of her seventeenth birthday, her presentation had not exercised Mrs Dauntry’s mind until she learned, from various garbled sources, that Alverstoke