I glanced down at my clothes. The black slacks that had looked okay at home suddenly seemed dowdy, and flecked with bits of Spike’s fur. And was that a spot of yogurt on the left knee? Maybe I should have worn a skirt. And heels. And—

Okay, so the Inn still had the power to intimidate.

I nodded to the desk clerk as I strolled through the lobby toward the restaurant.

“Shall I tell your grandfather you’re here?” he called.

I waved, smiled, shook my head, and pointed to the dining room. He waved, smiled, and nodded in return.

Michael was already seated at a table with a view of the lush expanse of the Caerphilly Golf Course, sipping a glass of red wine. He leaped to his feet when he saw me.

“You look marvelous,” he exclaimed, and leaned over to kiss me with far greater decorum than usual. Probably the civilizing influence of the hotel. I could see the maitre d’ beaming with subtle approval. Such a well-dressed, well-behaved young couple.

Yes, it was definitely yogurt on the knee of my pants, with tufts of dog-hair stuck in it. But the blouse was fine. I’d feel a lot more at ease once I got my unprepossessing legs under the tablecloth.

“I look okay,” I said. “Imagine how marvelous I could look if—Yow!”

I’d started to sit down while talking, and didn’t realize that the waiter had pulled out my chair for me—pulled it so far out and with such a flourish that when I tried to sit down where I’d last seen the chair, I landed on the floor in a heap.

I spent the next several minutes assuring the waiter and the maitre d’ that yes, I was fine, and no, I didn’t want the hotel doctor to check me out, and for heaven’s sake, we didn’t expect them to pick up our check.

“They’re like sharks,” I said to Michael in an undertone. “One drop of blood in the water—”

“Is madame injured?” Now it was the hotel manager at my elbow.

We finally agreed to accept a bottle of wine as suitable recompense for my injury. The hotel staff were still hovering solicitously over us when the Driscolls arrived.

Dining with the Driscolls was like dining with someone’s grandparents. We managed to fill the first few minutes of the dinner with discussions of what each of us planned to order. But all too soon, the waiter took our orders and whisked away the menus, stranding us without any obvious means of conversation.

Michael and Dr. Driscoll fell back on college politics, and I hit on the notion of telling Mrs. Driscoll about our recent elopement and honeymoon. Either I’d found a subject dear to her heart, or she was as relieved as I was to have found something we could talk about. At any rate, she listened with a grandmotherly smile, making the occasional chirping comment, and happily sipping first a glass of the excellent wine Michael had initially ordered and then a few glasses of the even more excellent wine the maitre d’ brought by way of apology. By the end of the salad course, I suspected Mrs. Driscoll would happily have listened to me read her the Caerphilly phone directory as long as I kept her glass filled.