It is a strange thing, is it not?" "I suppose," Margaret said, "he is just passing through, poor man." "Lucky man," Stephen said. "But whoever /passes through /Throckbridge? /From /where /to /where? And /why/?" "Perhaps Papa-in-law will find out," Vanessa said. "And perhaps he will not. But doubtless we will all live on even if our curiosity is never satisfied." "Perhaps," Katherine said, clasping her hands to her bosom and batting her eyelids theatrically as she twirled once about, "he has heard of the Valentine's ball and has come here to seek a bride." "Oh, Lord," Stephen said. "Has Valentine's Day turned you daft, Kate?" He laughed and ducked away from the cushion she hurled at his head.

The parlor door opened again to admit Mrs. Thrush. She had Stephen's best shirt over one arm. "I have just ironed it, Mr. Stephen," she told him as he thanked her and took it from her. "You take it up to your room immediately and lay it flat on your bed. I do not want to see it all creases again even before you put it on." "No, ma'am," he said, winking at her. "I mean, yes, ma'am. I did not even realize it needed ironing." "No." She clucked her tongue. "I don't suppose you did. But if all the young girls are going to be swooning over you, as I daresay they will, you might as well be wearing a freshly ironed shirt. And /not /those boots. Phew! I'll have you down scrubbing my floors with your own hands if you do not take them off and set them outside the door before you go upstairs." "The ironing was to be my next task," Margaret said. "Thank you, Mrs.

Thrush. Now I think it is time we all thought about getting ready for the assembly.