Some subtle changes took place in their relationship as it progressed. Dammler’s attitude could not have been described as reverential or anything like it even at the beginning. He admired and respected Miss Mallow’s books and brains initially, then he began to like her dry wit, her understatement, her way of not pretending to be impressed with his past (and present) affairs, which he coloured bright, to shock her. When she wore her new bonnets, he thought she was rather sweet looking, in an old-fashioned way. They talked and laughed together for hours. If anyone had told him they were well suited, he would have been shocked.

More than one friend did enquire of Dammler the name of his new friend, and he was at pains to make clear she was a professional friend. “The new lady novelist Murray is all excited about,” he would explain. Murray had, in fact, taken more interest in her since Dammler had taken her up.“You must have read her marvelous books-very clever. I adore them.” Both the books and the author gained more from such speeches as these than from a hundred less exalted persons liking them. They were put on the reserved list at the lending libraries so that several ladies had to purchase a copy for themselves.

One day Dammler met an acquaintance as he came out of Hettie’s house. It was a Mr. Seville, a nabob with whom Hettie had become friends. She wasn’t overly particular, Dammler noticed. “Oh, Dammler, how have you been?” Seville asked.

“Splendid, what’s the news?"

“Little to tell. Say, who’s the pretty new chit I see you driving with these days?”

“You mean Miss Mallow, I believe. Not a chit, by the way, but a lady. A professional friend-a novelist. Very clever woman."

“That so? Not your chère amie then?”

“Good Lord, no! You must have seen me with Cybele. Well, you were at the opera last night.” Dammler spent many afternoons with Miss Mallow, but his evenings were still given over to his customary pursuits.

“Yes, I did see you, but since when do you limit yourself to one?”

“When the one is Cybele, who can afford two?”

“No, she didn’t come cheap, I’ll swear. Lovely gel, though. And this Miss Mallow is a writer you say.”

“Yes…” Dammler went on to mention her books. “A very superior person. The best female novelist we have today I think.”

“I’d like to make her acquaintance some time.”

“I’ll try to arrange it,” he said, and thought to himself, in a pig’s eye.

Chapter 6

The day finally came when Prudence received her first invitation to a ton party. It was Lady Melvine, eager to attach a new talent and always inviting twice as many people as her rooms would hold to ensure a squeeze, who sent her her first card. Prudence was greatly thrilled, yet there were problems, too. The card had only her name on it; her mama and uncle were not known to Lady Melvine. She was not a little girl, yet to go all alone to her first fine social occasion could not but be intimidating. Suppose she got there and didn’t know a soul except the hostess? And even she might very well not recognize her to see her again. She really wondered that her name had been recalled, imagining Dammler to have been instrumental in the invitation. A further difficulty loomed in that both her mother and Uncle Clarence assumed she was going with Dammler. She disliked to disabuse them of the assumption lest they should think she ought to stay home, or worse, that Clarence would start to be happy to escort her.

Dammler, she knew, had begun his play for Drury Lane and was not calling as often as formerly. The day of the ball arrived and though she had sent in an acceptance and had a new gown ready, she was by no means sure she wouldn’t develop a migraine when the hour for leaving rolled around. It was three o’clock. Writing proved impossible with such a decision before her and she sat in her study, now not only shelved but with several portraits of literary giants decorating the walls. Uncle Clarence had been busy while she gallivanted. There were Shakespeare and Milton on the east wall, and Aristotle between the windows, all regarding her with enigmatic smiles between closed lips, and all with their hands folded, a pen or a book to indicate their calling. With startling ingenuity, Shakespeare held a candle, which in some obscure manner represented his particular field to be drama. It was at the candle that Prudence was looking when a servant came to the door and announced Dammler. The marquis was not a foot behind her, for he never paid much heed to formality.

“Thank you,” he said over his shoulder to Rose and stepped in. “Do I disturb the genius at work? You should keep a dish of apples to throw at inconsiderate scoundrels like myself who barge in uninvited when you are busy. Shall I leave? I can come back later-just tell me when you will be free.”

“No, do come in. I am particularly stupid today. I can’t get a word down on paper."

“That was exactly my problem, so I came to you.”

“What, are you run into difficulties with the play? You said it was going well.”

“So it was, till this hussy of a heroine I’ve saddled myself with started cutting up on me. She is supposed to be a concubine of a Mogul but she has taken the notion into her head she’s real, and I can’t keep her in line.”

“But that is marvelous! When that happens, I know I am on the right foot. Give her her head. She will know what to do better than you.”

“But I have a plot of whose exigencies she is unaware, you see.” He sat down and threw one leg over the other. As usual, he was dressed in the height of fashion, and Prudence was aware of her own plain bombazine gown. “Her name is Shilla. She was sold to the Mogul at the tender age of eight-they snare ‘em young in the East. She is now a virgin of sixteen, having by a series of ingenious ruses saved herself from his advances, but he is quite determined to have her.”

“Will they put such a thing on the stage, milord? I hadn’t realized it was so risqué a story you were engaged in."

“You should have!” He threw back his head and laughed. “Really, Miss Mallow, the name is Prudence, not prude. It is a comedy, but in the best classic tradition, anything of interest will occur offstage. You didn’t think I planned to show the seduction?” Prudence was shocked but hid it as best she could, for like any lady of strict upbringing she was anxious to be thought more worldly than she was.

"The thing is,” he went on, “she is supposed to pretend she is sick to stave him off a little longer-waiting for God only knows what-I have no plan to rescue her. But the silly chit is falling in love with him. Now, what shall I do with her?”

“What is she telling you she wants to do?”

“I blush to confess it, but she plans to run away in the dead of night in the melodramatic manner of popular fiction. She must have been dipping into Mrs. Radcliffe’s Gothic novels when my back was turned. She hopes for him to come after her and make her number one wife, I imagine.”

“It sounds an excellent plan. The ladies will adore it, whatever the gentlemen may think. They would prefer him to use brute force or some vile scheme to have his way with her, I suppose, but if Shilla has decided she will bolt, bolt it is.”

“You don’t think it too hackneyed?”

“No, you will wrap it up in your fine silver phrases and the world will take it for a new thing.”

“It would never happen in the East,” he shook his head dubiously.

“Who will know that except yourself?”

“Only you. Can I count on your discretion?”

“You may be sure I won’t mention it to a soul.”

“I’ll let her bolt then. Now, you have helped me. What is your stumbling block? If you have a refractory hero on your hands I will be happy to trim him into line for you.”

“No, it’s not that. I'm not in the mood, that’s all.”

He looked around the room, and for the first time spotted Uncle Clarence’s pictures. “Good God! No wonder you’ve run dry with such a gallery to watch you. The work of Mr. Elmtree, no doubt. I recognize the pose. Oh, yes, and a symbol apiece. Who are they?”

“What an ignoramus,” she jeered. “You don’t recognize Shakespeare? Don’t be fooled by the luxuriant head of curls. Uncle did not like him to have a receding hairline."

“It was the candle that fooled me. But I won’t ask its significance. Andthe other fellow?”

“Milton, of course. Looking quite like his old self, but for the inch or so Uncle took off the end of his nose. And the other in the night gown is Aristotle.”

“They bear a remarkable resemblance to each other, do they not?”

“How can you say so? Shakespeare has a moustache.”

“Still, they could be taken for brothers.”

“There is a certain similarity between all my uncle’s pictures. You must develop an eye for the fine points. You will come out looking much like them when he gets around to doing you. You can’t escape forever you know.”

“You do me too much honour, but I must always be distinguished by my black patch.”

“Cretin!” she laughed. “You cannot think he would paint anything so different. You will have two round agates like the rest of us.”

He smiled, but picked her up on it all the same. “What a little diplomat you are, Miss Mallow. He wouldn’t paint anything so different. So grotesque you mean. He only paints over a fault. But you must not regard me in disgust because of it. The patch comes off shortly.”

“It is not in the least grotesque. Quite makes you, in fact. I like it excessively.”

“You put me at a disadvantage,” he smiled oddly.

"What can you mean? You are going to start finding fault with me. That’s it.”

“No, but I had hoped to ask you to exchange your cap for my patch one of these days. Today, in fact, or tonight rather, for the ball. My patch will have to stay on 'til a little later.”