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doing here? Is Christine all right?" he asked.
    "The child is fine," Diana said. "And I came because I am the one who is sick, not our daughter. I am positively ill with boredom, Randolph. All I've done all day long is sit by the window watching the boats on the river and the traffic going over the bridge to the North Division. I'm so tired of living like a gypsy in a hotel. Shouldn't you have started work on the house by now?"
    "You're sure Christine's fine," he said, ignoring her diatribe. Their fifteen-month-old daughter was the bright and shining center of his life. Earlier in the evening she'd been fretful, a little feverish, and he'd convinced Diana to stay at Sterling House rather than leave Christine with the nurse.
    "The baby was fast asleep when I left," Diana said. "Becky Damson was in the parlor, knitting. I thought you'd be delighted to see me, and here you are, flirting away with the most famous heiress in Chicago."
    "Who? Lucy?"
    "And on a first-name basis, no less. The Hathaways are an Old Settler family. Her father is a war hero, and her grandfather made a fortune in grain futures. If you hope to be a successful banker, you're supposed to know these things."
    "Ah, but I have you to keep track of them for me."
    "Apparently I need someone to keep track of you," she observed.
    Already regretting the brief flirtation, he vowed to devote more attention to his increasingly unhappy wife. No matter what he did, it wasn't enough. She'd been dissatisfied with their life back in Philadelphia, so he'd moved her and their baby daughter to Chicago.
    He was trying to launch a career in banking while Diana frantically shopped and planned for the grand house they intended to build on the fashionable north shore. But even the prospect of a palatial new residence failed to keep her discontent at bay.
    "Come and meet Mr. Lamott," Rand suggested, knowing she would be impressed, and that Jasper Lamott—like every other man—would find his wife enchanting.
    As he escorted her into the reception salon, Rand fought down a feeling of disappointment. When he and Diana had married, he'd been full of idealistic visions of what their life together would be like. He had pictured a comfortable home, a large, happy family putting down roots in the fertile ground of convention. They were things he used to dream about when he was very young, things he'd never had for himself. But as the early years of their marriage slipped by, Diana paid little attention to roots or family. She seemed more interested in shopping and travel than in devoting herself to her husband and child.
    He kept hoping the move to Chicago would improve matters, but with each passing day, he was coming to understand that a change of venue was not the solution to a problem that stemmed from the complicated inner geography of his heart.
    He caught himself brooding about Lucy Hathaway's bold contention that women were stifled by the unfair demands foisted upon them by men who shackled them with the duties of a wife and mother.
    "Do you feel stifled?" he asked Diana.
    She frowned, her pale, lovely face uncomprehending. "What on earth are you
    talking about, Randolph?"
    "By Christine and me. Do you feel stifled, or shackled?" She frowned more deeply. "What a very odd question." "Do you?"
    She took a step back. "I have no idea, Randolph." Then she fixed a bright, beautiful, artificial smile on her face and walked into the reception room.

    Rand couldn't help himself. He kept trying to catch a glimpse of Lucy Hathaway, but apparently she and her friends had already left the hotel. For the past forty minutes, he'd wanted to do the same, anxious to get back to Sterling House and his daughter. She would be asleep by now, but that didn't matter. He loved to watch Christine sleep. The sight of her downy blond curls upon a tiny pillow, her chubby hands opened like stars against the quilt, always filled him with a piercing tenderness and a sense that all was right with the world.
    Diana