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"I should probably warn you," I said, "that I'm hungry and I might have to embarrass you by eating the lot."

He grinned. "Eat away. We'll be pariahs together."

I'd never been flirted with before, but when you've read as many novels as I had, you know what it looks like. What I didn't know was how it makes you feel, when a personable young man ignores everyone else in the room to talk to you, and looks into your eyes as though he's never seen eyes before, and every so often brushes your hand with his, as though by accident but definitely not. And all the while, we chatted like old friends, finding we had all sorts in common. Neither of us thought much of the latest Mary Pickford film; both of us were intrigued by the rumors of a fresh attempt on the South Pole. We'd both read about the new ship being built in Belfast, the biggest ever, with restaurants and squash courts and a swimming bath, and when I said my father planned to book us on its maiden voyage, Frederick was envious.

"How marvelous. I'd love an adventure like that!"

We'd ordered our car for midnight—late for my father, who liked to be up and getting on with the day before most people had even had breakfast—so all too soon, it was time to go.

Dropping a kiss on my hand that made me blush, Frederick said, "This won't, I hope, be goodbye. I'm staying here at Chilverton a while. Might I call on you both before I go back to Kent?"

*  *  *

Everyone knows what it means when a single man asks to call on a household with an unmarried daughter in it. Even my father, who normally paid very little attention to anything that didn't involve cotton.

"Well," he said in the car, "I wasn't expecting this." He drew himself up and said in a plummy voice, "Lady Elinor, pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Stop it!"

"Any fool could see he likes you. But do you like him? If not, earl or no earl, we'll call a halt to it."

"I do like him."

"Good, because so do I. And I daresay we'll see him at Clereston before the week's out."

*  *  *

We did. He came to tea twice, entertaining us with stories of his time at Eton, where he said he was hopeless at everything except cricket. I had a copy of Villette beside me the second time, and he asked if I was fond of reading. My father chuckled.

"Fond of reading? She's read every book you can imagine. I've no patience for stories, me, but she gets through them by the cartload."

He made it sound as though I read nothing but cheap novelettes, so I said quickly, "I've just finished Under the Greenwood Tree by Thomas Hardy."

"Ah," said Frederick. "One of my favorite authors." 

"Mine too! Which is your favorite of his?"

He thought for a moment, his head on one side. "I think it is Under the Greenwood Tree, actually."

"You didn't find the end unconvincing?"

"Long time since I read it, but yes, I seem to recall I did." He held out his cup. "May I trouble you for a little more tea?"

Once I'd poured the tea and offered him more fruit cake, the conversation turned, disappointingly, to the weather, and what sort of summer we seemed likely to have. When that tedious subject was exhausted and I was about to ask what he thought of The Mayor of Casterbridge, he stood to leave.

Thanking us for our company, he said to my father, "Might I visit one of your mills while I'm up here? I'd be fascinated to see how it all works."

After he'd gone, my father said, "If he's interested in cotton milling, lass, I'm Harry Houdini. Shall I bring him back here for some dinner after he comes to the mill?"

"I'd like that," I said.

*  *  *

I wore my pale green with the rosebud print and asked my maid Rose to copy a hairstyle from the Ladies' Gazette. With her usual antipathy to anything new, she warned gloomily that she doubted she could do it and it might not suit me anyway. But I was pleased with the result, and even more pleased with Frederick's appreciative glance.

It was a raw old evening and, as we sat down, Frederick gestured to our big iron radiators.