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Imbrie ... was he not the one? No, that was Tolliver—at least I am nearly sure it was Tolliver—but perhaps I am confusing him with Marley. Oh, lud, I wish your father were here to tell me how to go on.”
    “Why, there’s naught so difficult, ma’am. You’ve only to send a civil reply, accepting his apology, and there’s an end to it. Shall I write for you?”
    “Yes, I suppose so. One does not wish to be impolite, although from your description ... Still, the direction is Grosvenor Square, so I must have been thinking of Tolliver, for he was sold up, you know. Beamish could easily ascertain ... but one cannot inquire of servants, it gives rise to gossip.”
    While her mother rambled on uncertainly, Charlotte was writing: Lady Stanwood is most appreciative of his Grace’s note, but feels no apology is needed. She wishes, rather, to commend his Grace on his expert avoidance of accident, due to the necessary slowing of her coach. “There—that should suffice, I think. If you approve, ma’am, I will send it at once.”
    Lady Stanwood came out of her abstraction and scanned the note. “Suffice for what?” she inquired with faint suspicion.
    “For easy relations should we meet,” Charlotte said innocently. “You know papa does not like any unnecessary difficulties with neighbors, and Grosvenor Square—it is practically next door. We may see the duke at St. George’s, or riding in the Row, and no doubt he and papa belong to the same clubs.”
    “No doubt,” Lady Stanwood agreed drily, “but I question our meeting at church, and until the horses arrive, you’ll not be riding. Furthermore, an apology for grazing my coach wheels does not constitute an introduction, Charlotte.”
    “No, ma’am. Shall I not send the note, then?”
    Her mother read it again. “Oh—you may as well,” she said finally, “and write another to Lady Inverclyde, asking her to call tomorrow morning, or as soon as may be. Flora will know about Imbrie ... Flora always knows everything...”
    At No. 10 Park Street, Lady Stanwood and her daughter dined lightly on oyster fritters, stewed neck of veal, a Davenport fowl and buttered salsify, removed with a green salad dressed in the French manner and ended with a pupton of pears accompanied by Crème a l’anglaise.
    At No. 10 Grosvenor Square, the Duke of Imbrie dined more heartily on two thick slices from a baron of beef, preceded by turtle soup and succeeded by boiled lamb with spinach, baked fish and roast pigeon. This was removed with an omelet, some white collops, an apple pie and a Savoy cake, accompanied by several dishes of preserved fruits and a large bowl of roasted chestnuts. His Grace was sitting over the Port, peeling a chestnut and staring moodily at the great branched candelabra, when the dining room door crashed open and a medium tenor voice said, “Devil take it, Robsey—no need to announce me to m’cousin. Bring another glass, someone. Julian, how are you? What do you in London?”
    “I am mending my temper,” the duke grimaced, but his expression lightened as his visitor threw himself carelessly into a chair, and indeed Lord Arthur Voss was good to look upon. The family resemblance was strong, yet softer in Lord Arthur. His curls were more brown than black, his eyebrows curved correctly above twinkling sherry-colored eyes instead of the duke’s heavy slashing line of black that nearly met at the center and was satanically upthrust toward his temples. Both men possessed the handsome classic-modelled Voss nose and deep chin dimple, but Lord Arthur’s lips were slightly fuller. He seemed always to be on the verge of smiling. In fact, his was a happy nature, rated a prince of good fellows by his enormous circle of friends and described as more Corinthian than Pink of the Ton, although no fault could be found with his evening dress.
    Conversely, the duke’s coat of wine red velvet heavily x braided and slashed to permit a fall of finest Mechlin at wrists and throat