She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties and had brown hair and blue eyes the colour of Margaret’s own, an open smile, and an unexpected accent. “You’re English,” Margaret replied in surprise.

“Originally, though I came here as a child almost thirty years ago. I am Mrs. Jane Cunningham Croly,” she said, holding out her card. “And now that I’ve heard you speak, I know you must be Lady Margaret. I do love a Scotch accent.”

“How do you do?” Margaret said, getting to her feet.

“I do very well, thank you. You’re thinking I’ve taken a real liberty accosting you like this, I can see. I should explain that I am a journalist, better known to my readers as Jenny June. Oh no,” she added, as Margaret instinctively shrank back, “I’m not a hack in search of scandal; and, though I will confess that I do write two gossip columns, they are both of them perfectly harmless, I promise.”

“Is there such a thing as a harmless gossip column?”

“Oh, dear, that is the reaction of one who has been badly burned, if I’m not mistaken, but I assure you mine are really very tame. I swear I couldn’t publish a fraction of the things I hear right here in this room.”

“Really?”

“The Ladies’ Parlour is notorious for tittle-tattle. Trust me, that little coterie over there aren’t comparing the price of table linen,” Mrs. Croly said. “A long day’s shopping, weary feet, and a soft seat loosen the tongue. Now, please feel free to say no, but if you’d like to join my friend and me, then we’d be very pleased to have your company. That’s Mary Louise Booth, who has written a history of New York and who is the editor of a magazine called Harper’s Bazar which launched last year,” she added, nodding over at the other woman.

Two female journalists, and both of them looked entirely respectable, yet Margaret hesitated. Mama would politely decline the invitation. Louise would tell her that no journalist was to be trusted. But Marion—hadn’t Marion exhorted her to enjoy all that New York had to offer? And here were two women who actually made their living from writing. “Thank you,” Margaret said, “I would be delighted to join you.”

Mrs. Croly beamed. “Come along, then. Mary Louise,” she said, as the other woman got to her feet, “this is Lady Margaret Scott. Lady Margaret, this is Miss Mary Louise Booth.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Margaret.”

The woman who extended her hand was strong-featured, with a generous mouth and a rather prepossessing nose, but there was an air of quiet self-possession about her, of a woman confident in herself, that drew Margaret to her instantly. “Miss Booth, how do you do?”