That might happen on her birthday—in August. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. The house became joyous again with the talk of babies and wedding festivities. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. He would be off her case just as soon as his fever for her broke and he found a lover, and she imagined he must have plenty of girls from ritzy families lining up to choose from.
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