But Vanessa made no comment. Even the one length of ribbon was an extravagance that would have put a dent in Margaret's purse. /Of course /she would not have spent so recklessly on herself. "It is," she agreed cheerfully. "And who notices your dresses anyway when the person inside them is so beautiful?" Margaret laughed as she got to her feet to drape the dress over the back of an empty chair. "And all of twenty-five years old," she said. "Goodness, Nessie, where has the time gone?" For Margaret it had gone in caring for her siblings. On being unswervingly unselfish in her devotion to them. She had rejected a number of marriage offers, including the one from Crispin Dew, Hedley's older brother.

And so Crispin, who had always wanted to be a military officer, had gone off to war without her. That was four years ago. Vanessa was as sure as she could be that there had been an understanding between them before he left, but apart from a few messages in his letters to Hedley, Crispin had not communicated directly with Margaret in all that time. Nor had he been back home. One could say that he had not had any chance to come home with the country constantly at war as it was, and that it would have been improper anyway for a single gentleman to engage in a correspondence with a single lady. But even so, four years of near-silence was a very long time. Surely a really ardent lover would have found a way.

Crispin had not found one.

Vanessa strongly suspected that her sister was nursing a severely bruised heart. But it was one thing they never spoke of, close as they were. "What will /you /be wearing this evening?" Margaret asked when her question was not answered. But how could one answer such a question?