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she would prefer to forget, and she respected Mr. Silver’s reticence.
           Grateful
for the accountant’s interruption, Claire hurried toward him with
her hands outstretched. “Mr. Silver! It’s so nice to see you again.
You haven’t visited Partington Place for much too long.”
           His
smile for Claire was very warm. “Miss Montague, it’s a pleasure
to see you again, too.” He looked up, smiled at Tom, and held out
a hand. “I see Miss Montague has been giving you the grand tour, General
Partington.”
           “I
prefer ‘Mister’ Partington,” Tom said gently. “And you, I assume,
are Mr. Silver.”
    # # #
           Later
that same day, Claire was yawning over the household account books in
the tidy office she’d made for herself in a small back parlor in Partington
Place when Dianthe St. Sauvre came to call. Hearing the soft click of
the door leading out to the yard being opened, Claire looked up and
smiled when she beheld her friend.
           “Good
afternoon, Dianthe.”
           Dianthe
didn’t so much walk as waft toward Claire. As she sank into a chair,
her flowing skirts settled around her like a soft cloud, and Claire
sighed. She was past envying Dianthe, she guessed, but it did seem somehow
unfair that such beauty as Dianthe possessed couldn’t have been shared
more equitably among God’s creatures instead of bestowed exclusively
upon this one exquisite woman.
           What
used to depress Claire even more than her abundant beauty was that Dianthe
enjoyed genuine artistic genius. Unlike Claire herself who wrote hack
dime novels for so sordid a commodity as money, Dianthe created magnificent
romantic verses which she then interpreted in dance. Naturally, she
was poor as a church mouse, as befitted a True Artist.
           Without
returning Claire’s greeting, Dianthe lifted her head and breathed,
“Did he arrive?”
           Even
her voice was beautiful, Claire thought resignedly. There wasn’t a
man alive who wouldn’t be stirred to gallant deeds by Dianthe’s
voice.
           “He
came last night.” Claire sat forward on her chair and leaned over
the desk. “And, oh, Dianthe, he’s everything I expected him to be.”
           Dianthe’s
eyes grew round. She tossed her blond curls and whispered, “Oh, Claire,
truly? He’s truly the hero of—you know.”
           The
very few of Claire’s friends who knew her dark secret were extremely
kind to her. None of them ever mentioned “Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee”
to her face; they honored her friendship too much.
           “Yes.
He’s simply wonderful. You must meet him, Dianthe. You and he would
be—well, you’d be perfect together. I just know it.”
           Dianthe
blushed becomingly, as she did everything. Claire couldn’t suppress
a wistful sigh. If only she’d been given a fraction of Dianthe’s
glorious femininity. Ah, well. As her father had told her more than
once, each person was given gifts suitable to his or her abilities.
It was probably the only sensible thing her father had ever said, in
fact, but that was another matter entirely. Claire guessed it was her
lot in life to be practical. She wished she’d been given a practical
soul to go along with her practical looks.
           “Do
you really think so, Claire?”
           “I
truly do, Dianthe. He’s every bit as handsome and noble as the newspaper
and magazine accounts depict him as being. Why, he even tried to disparage
his achievements when Mr. Silver came to call this morning.” She decided
not to mention his mustache.
           Dianthe
pressed a hand to her bosom, a feature as gloriously lush as the rest
of her. “He’s modest as well as heroic? Oh, Claire!”
           “Indeed
he is. Why, he insisted upon being called merely ‘Mr. Partington,’
as if his achievements in the war meant nothing