“Lady Margaret, this is a most unexpected surprise. How do you do?” The woman who got to her feet was nondescript in appearance, the kind of woman who would have been called homely were it not for her intent grey eyes and her reputation as the doyenne of New York society. Mrs. William Astor was as plain in person as the façade of her home, her severe black gown augmented only by a small lace ruffle at the neck, with none of her legendary diamonds on display.

“I am so sorry,” Margaret said, eyeing the gentleman who had also got to his feet. “I didn’t realise you already had company.”

“Oh, Lina and I are such close friends, I don’t count as company. Samuel Ward McAllister at your service, Lady Margaret.”

The gentleman looked to be in his forties and like Mrs. Astor’s, his dress was plain to the point of funereal. Perhaps, Margaret thought as he bowed over her hand, to compensate for his hair which, despite the Macassar oil which he had applied so copiously that she could smell it, had failed to tame the grizzled curls which looked as if they were beating a hasty retreat from his high domed forehead. His goatee and absurdly long moustaches looked as if they had been badly knitted from thin wire; and she could see, as he made a decidedly shallow bow, that Marion was trying very hard not to laugh.

“Please do sit,” Mrs. Astor said. “And you, too, Samuel.”

“Strictly speaking, I should leave,” Mr. Ward said, resuming his seat. “But since you have, albeit inadvertently, broken the rules, Lady Margaret, I am sure you will not object to my bending them just a little further. It is the custom here,” he continued in response to her blank look, “to leave a card before paying a call, but I assure you we take no offence.”

“Oh, none at all,” Mrs. Astor said.

“Well,” Marion said rather dryly, “that is a relief.”

“Mrs. Scrymgeour, isn’t it? I am afraid I am not familiar with the name.”

“Mrs. Scrymgeour’s late husband was one of Her Majesty’s diplomats,” Margaret explained.

“Were you ever attached to the embassy in Paris? No? What a shame. It is a marvellous city,” Mrs. Astor said. “I myself go to Paris every spring, to buy my new season’s gowns. There is nowhere like it.”

“I am looking forward to shopping here in New York. I have never been to a department store. I am told that in A. T. Stewart’s one can buy anything from a mousetrap to a—a . . .”

“A throne,” Marion quipped, as Margaret floundered, making her giggle.

Mrs. Astor’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah, the famed British sense of irony. I will be more than happy to supply you with a list of the best shops if you are thinking of refreshing your wardrobe. You may mention my name.”