And the slight hint of the vertical scar upon one cheek-the result of a duel for another girl's honour, a girl now long gone, in point of fact-the artist had wished to suppress that, but Alan had been quite proud of his disfigurement at the time and insisted it be rendered exactly. Just as they had disputed the teeth-baring grin, too; English gentlemen were supposed to be sober and dignified in life, and limned so in portraits for posterity.

Yes, he'd wash up, he decided, taking the first of the stairs. And see if he, at the advanced age of thirty, even slightly resembled the young "sprog" he used to be.

Thirty, Jesus, he thought! And he used to spurn women who had gotten a little long in tooth. If only he'd known then in his feckless days what he knew at present!

There, he thought, almost satisfied. His reflection didn't vary much from the portrait downstairs after he had washed and toweled.

Much, he amended.

He'd been eating well, and even with rugged, outdoorsy country pursuits he was not exactly the lean-cheeked courtier of his youth, nor so pale as a titled lord. But it was near enough.

Cony finished brushing his coat and waistcoat and he redonned them. He'd slipped out of his top boots and exchanged them for a pair of indoor shoes, little more than soft-leather pumps, more like women's dancing slippers than anything else. Insubstantial though they felt, they were all "the go" lately.

Standing well back from Caroline's dressing mirror, he perused his form as well. He had been eating well, after all, though there was no snugness to the sewn-to-be-snug, buff-coloured suede breeches beyond what fashion demanded. His bottle-green coat and waist-coat sat well upon him, he thought-though they were new, run up before Christmas, so what comparison would they be?