He was not a foolish man, nor one without worldly wisdom, or he could not have made the wealth he had in a harsh and highly competitive trade. Manchester-that was the area where his accent proclaimed him to have lived-was not a soft city nor one easily to refine the rough edges from a man's manner. But neither did it have the weary sophistication of London, the cosmopolitan mixture of cultures and the press and vigor of the world's traffic. There was a kind of innocence to Barton Lambert, and looking at his face, Rathbone was sure his anger would be of the same spontaneous and unstoppable character.

The conversation was about politics. FitzRobert had just said something about Mr. Gladstone.

"Fine man," Lambert agreed. "Knew his family." He nodded.

Of course. William Ewart Gladstone, "God's vicar in the Treasury," as he had been mockingly called, was a Manchester man. There was a ring of pride in Lambert's voice.

"Couldn't be less like the Prime Minister," FitzRobert went on, referring, no doubt, to Lord Palmerston's reputation for wit and good fellowship and the distinct enjoyment of life, its pleasures as well as its duties.

A thought crossed Rathbone's mind about Mr. Gladstone's fairly well known vigor regarding the opposite sex, and the occasionally understandable interpretation of his hospitality for the less fortunate of them, whose souls he believed he might save. However, in deference to the ladies present, especially Zillah, he forbore from making any remark. He caught FitzRobert's eye and kept his face perfectly composed, but with difficulty.

They were joined a moment later by another handsome woman, accompanied by two unmarried daughters. They were all dutifully introduced, and Rathbone saw the lady's eyes sparkle with interest as she automatically assessed his eligibility, his social status and his probable income. Apparently she found them all satisfactory. She smiled at him generously.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Sir Oliver. May I present my elder daughter, Margaret."