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been gossiping about him.
    “How did The Tempest go on after I left?” he asked. “I was called away suddenly. I hadn’t even time to say good-bye to you—to anyone except Lady Bellingham, in fact.”
    “We heard about your father, and were sorry to hear it. The play went on fine. Someone—Boo Withers I think it was—took your part. Well, you hadn’t a very large part, as I recall.”
    “They knew what they were about to cast me as one of the attendant lords. I am no actor. And you were to be one of the spirits. Iris, was it not? You should have been Miranda, the leading lady.”
    He even remembered the insignificant little part she had been cast to play. “Oh no! That was the only important female role in the play. Miss Bellingham played it marvelously.”
    “Just like Buck Bellingham to put on a play with no good roles for ladies, when he had the very flower of Albion’s womanhood assembled under his roof at the time. He had that charming Kessler girl play Sycorax, with her blond curls all stuffed up under a fright wig. He should have put on The Taming of the Shrew or The Merry Wives of Windsor.”
    Clara saw that his memory was as keen for other girls at the party as herself, and her joy was diluted accordingly. “What Buck really wanted was to get himself rigged out as Caliban and scare the wits out of everyone,” she replied. “He did it very well, too.”
    “What have you been doing since then, Miss Christopher? That was two years ago, and I haven’t had a glimpse of you since. I heard you had gone to Scotland for a visit.”
    “I was there for a few months. Then I was at Devon for six weeks.”
    His shaking head indicated mild disapproval, but his smile was warm. “Still on the move, I see. I know you dislike gathering moss, but this constant shifting about must also make it difficult to gather friends. Where are you staying now, tumbleweed?”
    She laughed in surprise at his having hit on her secret name for herself. “How did you know I call myself the human tumbleweed?”
    “You told me. Don’t you remember? That afternoon you were making Caliban’s headpiece from an old mop, using me as your plaster blockhead. You told me I had the best blockhead at the party. I was highly flattered.”
    “You’re making that up. I never said anything of the sort I’m sure.” She found herself laughing again at his lively nonsense. She didn’t remember the occasion in detail, but had some recollection of making Caliban’s headpiece, and how else could he know she called herself the tumbleweed, if she hadn’t told him?
    “Indeed you did! A man doesn’t get a compliment like that every day—thank God. I remember it very well. And I bet I remember something else you’ve forgotten.”
    “What is that?” The absurd idea danced into her head that he was going to remember her rose gown and pay some exaggerated compliment on it.
    “You promised—” He paused, and changed his mind. “No, think a moment. See if you can remember what you were supposed to do.” He looked closely at her, his gray eyes quizzical, while a soft smile played over his lips.
    Her mind ran back to that visit two years ago. She remembered being in conversation with Allingcote several times. She recalled how he looked, the tone of his voice, she remembered laughing a great deal, but the meetings were not much differentiated from one another. She remembered she had a wonderful time, but no specific words, certainly nothing in the nature of a promise. She shook her head.
    “You have a shockingly bad memory, Miss Christopher. You promised you would write me out the words of “The Maid of Lodi,” that we might entertain the company with a duet. And you didn’t do it. I daresay you took a bribe from someone. There was a petition going around to block us, if I remember aright.”
    “Well sir, if my memory is shockingly bad, I must own yours is shockingly good. It must be almost an inconvenience to have so much useless lumber