But it had happened by some bizarre twist of fate. And she thought again of how achingly familiar he had looked in the drawing room earlier before he had become aware of her presence. She supposed there must have been some changes had she had the chance to look more closely to show that he was now a man of eight and twenty rather than two and twenty, but the experience of six years before seemed to have left no mark on him. He had appeared as friendly and as charming as he ever had. Elizabeth wondered if there were any visible sign of change in her. But she knew that there must be. Even though her name had brought his eyes in her direction earlier, it had taken him a moment to recognize that she was the same Elizabeth Rossiter he had known.

Of course she had changed! Elizabeth thought back to the young, eager girl that she had been when she arrived in London at the age of twenty. She had worn her chestnut hair long, in thick curls and ringlets. Her aunt's hairdresser had advised her not to imitate the current fashion for cropped hairstyles; her hair was too rich and too healthy, he declared. Her aunt's dresser had decided that Elizabeth's complexion needed no artificial aids. Her cheeks always had a natural bloom. Her gray eyes were large and always looked directly into a companion's. Her figure was slender but unmistakably feminine. She was of average height.

Elizabeth remembered that she had had many admirers, who had shamelessly flattered her beauty. But although she had laughed, she had had to believe in their sincerity. She had no wealth or dowry that could have attracted mere fortune-hunters. After the hard years spent keeping her father's home, she had thrown herself with unabashed zest into the activities of the Season. The fashion was to appear bored, but Elizabeth had refused to conform. She had ridden, driven with a variety of escorts, and attended balls, routs, Venetian breakfasts, soirees, and a dizzying array of other events.