So was Rathbone. He had not judged Melville to have such courage.

"I think perhaps he is a genius," Margaret said very quietly. He only heard her because the music had stopped. They swung to a standstill. He offered his arm again, and she took it.

"Would you care for a glass of champagne?" he asked. "Or lemonade?"

"Lemonade, if you please," she accepted.

He fetched it for her and they spent a little further time in conversation, now not in the least difficult. Then he returned her to where Mrs. Ballinger was standing alone looking remarkably pleased with herself.

"I can see how much you have enjoyed your dance," she said with a smile. "You are excellently matched." She turned to her daughter. "Mr. Edwin Trelawny has been asking for you, my dear. He remembered you from your meeting in Bath. I think we should return Lady Trelawny's call… perhaps this week."

It was a ploy to make sure Rathbone did not think Margaret too available. No one wished to pursue a young lady if he was alone in the chase. If he were, then she could not be worth a great deal.

"Yes, Mama," Margaret said dutifully, cringing at the obviousness of it.

Mrs. Ballinger was undeterred. In order to marry off daughters one had to develop an exceedingly thick protective armor against disapproval or other people's embarrassment. She ignored Margaret's pleading look.

"Does your family live in London, Sir Oliver? I don't believe I am acquainted with your mother."

Margaret closed her eyes, refusing to look at Rathbone.

Rathbone smiled with quite genuine amusement. He was now being judged as to whether he was socially fully acceptable.