He passed a group of pretty girls, seventeen or eighteen years old, their fair skin gleaming in the light from the myriad candles in the chandeliers, their eyes bright, their voices high with nervousness, full of giggles and little squeaks. Their mothers or aunts were only yards away. One must never be without a chaperone. Reputations could be ruined.

A couple of young men were eyeing them from a distance of a few yards, standing self-consciously, pretending not to notice. One of them was so stiff his back was almost arched. They reminded Rathbone of bantam cocks.

He felt a hand on his arm and turned to see a man in his middle forties with a lean and humorous face.

"Rathbone, how are you?" he said cheerfully. "Didn't expect to see you at this sort of thing!"

"Hello, FitzRobert!" Rathbone replied with pleasure. “I was invited, and I rather fancied a little idle amusement, a spot of champagne and music."

FitzRobert's smile broadened. "Just won a notable victory?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Rathbone admitted, reliving his satisfaction. "I have. How are you?" He regarded his friend more closely. "You look well." It was not entirely true, but he felt tact was the better part of perception.

"Oh, I am," FitzRobert said a shade too quickly. "Busy, you know. Politics is a demanding mistress." He smiled briefly.

Rathbone struggled to remember the man's wife's name, and it came to him with a sudden picture of her face, very beautiful in a smooth, oddly discontented way. "And how is Mary?" he added.

"Very well, thank you." FitzRobert put his hands in his pockets and looked away.