Ridley locked even more pained.

"The topic, James?"

"The deplorable plight of chimney boys in London, your Grace."

"Ah, yes, now I recall," said Eversleigh, still leaning indolently against the shelf. "And do you have the speech written for me, James?"

Ridley allowed his exasperation to show. "You know you never allow me to write your speeches on topics about which you feel particularly strongly, your Grace," he said.

Eversleigh raised his eyebrows above lazy eyes. "And this is one of them, James?" he asked. "Quite so. I suppose you are right. You usually are, dear boy. A quite disconcerting habit you have."

Ridley gave him a speaking glance.

"And what invitations arrived today?" Eversleigh continued.

"Invitations, your Grace?" James Ridley looked blankly at his employer. "All the invitations are in the wastebasket, where you have instructed me always to place them."

"Quite so, dear boy," the duke agreed, regarding his secretary keenly from beneath his half-closed lids. "Humor me today, James, by removing them from their resting place and reading them to me."

"Reading them, your Grace?"

Eversleigh lifted his quizzing glass unhurriedly again. "Dear me, is my speech blurred today, James?" he drawled. "I assume that all that crumpled paper in the wastebasket is my invitations. Pull them out, man, and read them to me."

Ridley, convinced that his employer must be in the midst of some kind of seizure, complied with his orders. He pulled out one crumpled card after another and smoothed them on top of the ledger on which he had been laboring when the duke had entered his room.

"The Countess of Raleigh invites you to a musical soiree on May fifth," he began, glancing doubtfully at Eversleigh.

The duke looked back, considering for a moment. "Music?" he asked suspiciously. "What music, James?"

Ridley consulted the card again. "The main artiste is the Italian opera singer Signora Ratelli," he said.