"But how do you do that without appearing grossly hurtful, offensive? How do I say that I do not feel that kind of emotion for her without insulting her and wounding her feelings unforgivably?" His voice rose. "And yet I never said anything, so far as I can recall, that sounded like… that was intended to mean… I have racked my brain, Sir Oliver, until I now no longer have any clear recollection of what I did say. I only know that announcements have been made in the Times, and the date is set, and I had no say in the matter at all." His face was pale, except for two spots of color in his cheeks. "It has all happened as if I were a prop in the center of some stage around whom the whole dance revolves, and yet I can do nothing at all to affect it. And suddenly the music is going to stop, and they are all going to wait for me to play my part and make everyone happy. I can't do it!" He was filled with quiet despair, like a trapped creature who can no longer fight and has nowhere to run.

Rathbone found his sympathy touched in spite of his better judgment.

"Has Miss Lambert any idea of your feelings?" he asked.

Melville's shoulders lifted slightly.

"I don't know; I don't think so. She is… she is caught up in the wedding plans. I sometimes look at her face and it seems to me as if it is quite unreal to her. It is the wedding itself which has occasioned such enormous preparation, the gown, the wedding breakfast, who will be invited and who will not, what society will think."

Rathbone found himself smiling with the same half-ironic appreciation of frailty and fear that he had seen in Melville's eyes. He had some slight experience of society matrons who had successfully married a daughter, to the envy and the chagrin of their friends. Appearance far outweighed substance at that point. They had long ago ceased to consider whether the bride was happy, confident, or even what she actually wished. They assumed it must be what they wished for her, and acted accordingly.