"You are being very unreasonable, my love," Lady Brampton had complained.

Rosalind had reached into her reticule and withdrawn her vinaigrette, glaring meaningfully at her brother. "There is always Margaret Wells," she had said.

Brampton had laughed. "Yes, I suppose there is always Margaret Wells," he had agreed.

"Really, Richard," Rosalind had continued crossly, "she is a very respectable female. It is true that she never really took with the ton, but I do believe it was her good sense and proper manner that frightened away any would-be suitors. She would make an eminently suitable wife, I am sure. True, her father is neither titled nor wealthy, but he is of impeccable lineage and manages to maintain a country estate as well as a town house. I hear they are even planning a Season for the younger girl, Charlotte."

"Margaret Wells. Is she the sweet little lady who has taken to sitting with the chaperones at assemblies? And has donned caps?" Lady Brampton had asked.

And somehow, he was never to know quite how, Brampton had found himself drawn inextricably into the scheme. Lady Brampton had renewed her old acquaintance with Mrs. Wells; the Earl of Brampton had joined a card table at White's Club with Mr. Wells one evening and had waited on him the next day to propose a marriage contract with his daughter.

Brampton, reclining now in his library, raised his glass to his eye. Strange! Brandy was dark brown, was it not, not transparent? And when you turned the glass upside down, was not the liquid supposed to pour out? His sluggish brain finally reached the inevitable conclusion: the glass must be empty! "At least I am not quite drunk," he sighed with relief as he pulled himself out of his chair and tried to steer the shortest course to the desk. The glass refilled, Brampton somehow found his way back to the sanctuary of the chair and sank into it.