David Gower was seated in Lord Rivers' very comfortable carriage later that evening on his way to the Simpson ball, his cousin opposite him. He was still feeling rather amused at the way Algie's feelings had been ruffled when he had teased him about the magnificent folds of his neckcloth.

"How many neckcloths did your poor valet wreck before he could come up with this piece of sheer artistry?" he had asked.

"Only four," Algie had replied, turning the whole upper part of his body in David's direction in order not to have his cheeks punctured by the sharp points of his shirt collar. "He was more careful than usual tonight."

David had shouted with laughter. "Perhaps if you could train yourself to sleep absolutely motionless on your back all through the night," he had said, "you could make the same creation serve for a whole week, Algie. It seems a shame to waste all that artistic effort on one evening's entertainment. Perhaps someone of some significance will be absent this evening and not even see it."

That was when Algie's feelings had become ruffled. He had pretended to take offense, anyway. David would not have been feeling so cheerful if he thought he had seriously hurt his cousin. He turned his thoughts to the evening ahead. It had been a long time since he had attended anything quite so frivolous as a ball. And a London ball at that. He quite looked forward to the experience. He would be no match for the splendor of the other guests, of course. His gray knee breeches, silver waistcoat, and blue evening coat had served him for all formal occasions during the previous two years. And he had not even tried to coax his neckcloth into anything but the simplest of knots. His coat was not particularly tight across his shoulders. He knew for a fact that Algie's valet had had to summon a footman to help him squeeze Algie into his.