"My mother died some years ago, Mrs. Ballinger," he answered. "My father lives in Primrose Hill, but he mixes very little in society. In fact, I suppose it would be more honest to say he does not mix at all." He looked at her directly. "Of course, he is quite well acquainted with most of the scientific and mathematical community because of his work ... before he retired. And he always had a high regard for Lord Palmerston."

He knew instantly he should not have mentioned the Prime Minister. She was immensely impressed.

"How very agreeable," she answered, momentarily at a loss for words. She recovered rapidly. "I hope I shall have the good fortune to meet him someday. He sounds quite delightful."

Margaret looked as if she wanted to groan.

"I am afraid my opinion is hopelessly biased," Rathbone said, excusing himself with a smile. He was actually extremely fond of his father. He liked him quite as much as anyone he knew. "Now I must not monopolize your time, Mrs. Ballinger. Miss Ballinger, I have greatly enjoyed your company, and I hope we shall meet again. Good evening."

They replied appropriately and he turned and walked away, perhaps a little more rapidly than usual. In spite of his intellectual knowledge of what was happening, and why, and his wry amusement at it all, he still felt pursued, and only his certainty of escape kept the panic from welling up inside him.

He must not seem to be fleeing. It would hurt Margaret and be inexcusably rude. He should dance with at least three or four other young ladies, and perhaps one or two older ones, before he could decently leave.

An hour later he was preparing to excuse himself to Lady Hardesty and thank her for a delightful evening, when he found himself standing next to Zillah Lambert, who had just been left by a companion who had gone to seek refreshment for her. She looked flushed and happy, her skin glowing, her eyes bright.

"Good evening again, Miss Lambert," he said politely. She really was a very charming girl.

"Good evening, Sir Oliver. Isn't it a lovely ball?" She looked around at the sea of lace and tulle and silk, the blaze of lights, the laughter and the music and the sway and swirl of movement. “I wish everyone could be as happy as I am."

He felt acutely awkward. He knew that almost all of her joy rested in her engagement to Melville, and she obviously had not even the slightest idea that his feeling was utterly different. What to her was a prospect of excitement and unshadowed delight was to him a prison closing in, so unbearable he would risk social ruin—and very probably financial and professional ruin also—rather than endure it.

Why? There had to be far more to it than he had told Rathbone. Was Zillah really completely different from the way she seemed?