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ordered, the summons suddenly a thing to be desired. “Don’t let that underbred hussy deprive you of your just deserts.”
    “Speaking of desserts, may I have a slice of that plum cake, Marnie?”
    Marnie was not allowed to lift a finger. Malone cut off a wedge four inches wide and passed it along. She often remained in the room when the ladies were together, and though she refused totally to ever take a seat, she likewise refused to leave. The only way to be rid of her was to hint that Mimi had need of her.
    The hint was dropped by the child’s mother, and Malone was off in an angry rustle of starched aprons, with a Parthian shot tossed over her shoulder. “I’ll be back to read your leaves. A gypsy ain’t the only one can conjure up a beau. There’s more beaux in a teacup than ever came out of one.”
    “That explains why I have had such poor luck in finding one,” Aurora said to her sister. “I never thought to look in my teacup.” She did so now, but to no avail.
     
    Chapter Three
     
    Aurora, Miss Falkner, decided to accompany her sister to Raiker Hall in the morning. It was not home to her as it had been to her sister, since she had not come to stay till after the death of Bernard, but she had visited there during Marnie’s marriage and had often been to call in the year she had been staying at the Dower House. She was familiar with the elegant Blue Saloon into which they were shown, and she had ample time to become familiar again, since Lady Raiker kept them waiting ten minutes. She glanced around at the white-painted walls with embossed designs, the handsome blue velvet drapes, the Persian carpets and polished mahogany furniture, and regretted that her sister had had so soon to part with all this finery. The Dower House was nothing to it, the saloon a panelled room less than a third the size of this one, and the window hangings there were of faded brocade, somewhat the worse for wear. Marnie’s eyes were only on the firescreen, worked by her own hands, and a constant source of irritation to her. She felt strongly about keeping what belonged to her. She was nearly as adamant as the elder Lady Raiker in that respect, but was less cunning, and less successful.
    At the end of ten minutes there was the whisper of a silken skirt in the hallway, accompanied by a musky scent, and followed by the dramatic entrance of the dowager Lady Raiker. She was now in her early thirties, but held tenaciously to the accoutrements of youth. Her hair, blond like Marnie’s, was short and worn in a careful tousle suggesting that a brush had been drawn through it, no more. Her audience knew well enough that it took half an hour to achieve this casual effect. Her cheeks were shell-pink and unflawed by day, a shade less pink but still unflawed when she retired to her bed. Her eyes were large and lustrous and her teeth in good repair. Her figure too was still good, not the sylphlike frame that had first attracted old Charles, but not full enough to allow of the term “full-blown.” She carried a trailing wisp of heavily laced handkerchief in one hand, and entered smiling graciously, as became the chatelaine of Raiker Hall.
    “So kind of you to come, my dear,” she said in a failing voice, wafting herself forward to take up a seat beside them. “Dear little Charles is abed with a fever. I was up with him half the night.” Her clear eyes belied this motherly statement, but no one argued with it. Polite enquiries elicited the information that there was no real fear— merely Mama’s concern had caused her to exaggerate the danger.
    “I feel it is my own fault. I had him posing for me in the garden yesterday. I am taking his likeness to hang in my own room.” It was a bit of a relief to hear that the latest rendition would be put away from public view. Since Charles had come into his dignities and titles, Mama had executed a score of likenesses, one of which she stared at now across the room, wearing a wistful smile. The