Step-Mama glared at Papa, who did as he usually did: he acted as if he were not aware the wrath of the Lady would fall on his head when the party dispersed. He had forgotten to bow to the vicar, Margaret recalled, failed to save his wife from falling to the floor and, to cap it off, pointed out Step-Mama's failure to deck the church as a bower. The bride couldn't find it in her heart to allot him an iota of sympathy.

Sir Denison gulped a finger of brandy and said to his new son, "Heard your family collects. Stunning pieces of furniture."

"Priceless to the family," Treadway said. "Collecting is a recurring hobby down the generations. My grandfather was most prolific." He also took a large gulp from his glass. Christine cooed. The conversation becalmed.

Lady Ridgemont and Victoria Viceroy commenced a determined effort to plan the village's spring celebration. The conversation pooled in a discussion of their pet peeves.

"I wish we could eliminate the May pole," Victoria said. "The green becomes unpleasantly littered during the dancing."

"The ale tent is what I would like to abolish."

"Perhaps both could be left out." With nothing to stop its destructive flow, the conversation flooded into every objectionable practice of the neighborhood.

Mrs. Treadway's eyes misted as her husband helped her to a chair. "Mind my back. It still aches from that horrendous carriage ride into Hertfordshire. Oh Carlton, a mother's dream is fulfilled. My darling boy has captured his one true love."

"In outrageous clothing."

"Perhaps Miss Ridgemont--no, Mrs. Treadway Junior--requested the colors?"

Mr. Treadway Senior shook his head in disgust and turned to the vicar. "Allies two fine families. I can't ask for more. Promises to be a fine marriage."

Mrs. Treadway filled the gap in her husband's comment. "James and Margaret will make their home in London. He is set up in Mount Street. The house has been in the family for years; many of the special furniture pieces are there. I flatter myself it's a jewel of a museum as well as a comfortable home." The vicar nodded.

Hughes fidgeted. Margaret looked lost. It was her wedding breakfast, made miserable by his own folly and Tread's loose tongue. He was the wit of his friends; hostesses facing dull dinner parties begged his attendance. Even government types enjoyed his conversation. His facile tongue could ease the awkwardness of this situation for her. As a gentle knight, he could do no less.

Sidling his elegant, black clad form onto the sofa by Margaret, he opened his mouth, expecting a fountain of sparkling conversation to pour forth. He couldn't think of a thing to say. She must have heard;

She must have heard; yes, she must. Poor girl doesn't deserve the grief. "Lovely ceremony," he blurted.

Hughes's banal effort broke in white caps at his feet. Margaret slid to the end of the sofa, crushed her hip into the arm, and stared across the room. "Your dress is lovely too," he resorted to a bare faced lie.

Stupefaction and umbrage pinched her nostrils.

Nice nose, he decided. Not too short, but her expression hardly matches. Hughes was drowning. It served him right. "Can't say the church was lovely, not without flowers, but it was clean. Why weren't there flowers? I thought they are customary. M'mother seems to think you can't do anything without them. Last time she held a ball, there wasn't a bloom to be got in London. She had them all. Roses, violets, some blue things--they were all over the house. Not that I am complaining," he tacked on.

"Nice room here. I like the combination of blue and green. Restful." His foot began jiggling. Pity was an uncomfortable conversationalist. No, not pity. Compassion.

"Nice flowers on the tables. What ones do you like?"

She didn't deign to answer. Maybe a change of subject would help. "I hope to see you at Camelot for the season. Tread spends April through July haunting Camelot." When she failed to respond, he sank beneath the waves.

Margaret would not crack more than a social smile. Her face seemed graven of marble though her eyes, which he had not noted before, failed to be icy. Most unusual eyes, he mused. I have never in my life seen such eyes. The color was pretty, if not remarkable, being a clear blue. The whites were the customary white, the black the normal black, he supposed. It was the blue between the blue and black that was different.

"Never seen the blue and black mix together," he whispered. "Can't see where one ends and t'other begins." He slid closer on the sofa, the better to analyze her eyes. "Misty, like the horizon at sea."

She pinched him hard just above the wrist.

"What'd you do that for?"

"You were nearly sitting in my lap, staring at me and mumbling like a bedlamite. What do you think I did it for?" Margaret snapped and went to stand by the drafty window in a swirl of summery lace. Around her, conversational waves hit breakwalls when she pounded the window frame with a fist