And let's hope, thought January dourly, that our bonny Galen and la belle dame sans merci didn't decide the office was a more private venue for their tete-a-tete than the parlor. That would be all it needs, for Galen's father to find the pair of them coupling like weasels on the desk.

Cross passes. Footing steps. Casting off and casting back, and swooping into the grand promenade.

"I'm going to strangle that woman!" Dominique had changed into her costume for the tableaux, and, as Guenevere, had dispensed with the corsets and petticoats of modern dress, unlike at least four of the assorted Rebeccas and Juliets circulating in the crowd. Without them she looked startlingly sensual, thin and fragile and very reminiscent of the girls of January's young manhood in their high-waisted, clinging gowns. He had never adjusted to the sight of women in the enormous petticoats and mountainous sleeves of modern dress.

"Not only does she disappear without helping Marie-Anne and Marie-Rose-and after making them wear those frightful dresses in the first place, and Agnes is ready to spit blood!-but because I'm hunting high and low for her I miss the only real excitement of the evening!"

"She'll be in the parlor," pointed out January mildly. "She still has to fix her wings."

"Ben, I looked in the parlor. It was the first place I looked. And in the supper room. And it would have served that... that uppity tart right if he'd torn those wings right off her back." Minou adjusted the fall of one floor-length sleeve of buttercup yellow and straightened the dark curls of her chignon. "Did you hear what she told her mama about price and terms to take back to Peralta Pere? If I ever saw such a..."