They sat for a moment without looking at one another. Callie sipped her tea. She was vividly aware of Lilly in the chair behind her. She suddenly found a hundred things she wished to say to him, questions to ask, where he had been and what he done. She struggled for a commonplace to fill the silence, but commonplaces always eluded her.

"You remain at Shelford, then?" he asked at last.

"Only until my sister marries. Then I'll go with her, to keep her company."

He stood up suddenly. "Forgive me, but that is a precious waste."

She shook her head. "It's what I wish."

"To leave Shelford Hall? But, Callie—"

"It is what I wish," she said firmly. "And Hermione has promised she will not marry any gentleman who won't allow me to bring my bulls." She paused, real izing how unseemly that had no doubt sounded, and felt the red splotches bloom brighter on her cheeks. "Pardon me," she said. "But—you know what I mean." She blinked and averted her gaze in embarrassment, seizing the opportunity to stare into the dregs of her teacup and wonder what the scenery would be like in the outer reaches of Mongolia, if God would only answer her prayer and transport her there at once.

"Yes, I know what you mean," he said. His voice held a hint of a smile. "Tell me, how does the magnifi cent Monsieur Rupert go on these days?"

"Rupert has passed away," she said, on firmer conversational ground there.

"God rest him." He clasped his hands behind his back. "I'm sincerely sorry to hear it. I was hoping to see him again."

She lifted her eyes, surprised at the note of genuine regret in his voice. "Thank you. But he was upward of eighteen years, you know, and had a good and fruitful life. I've kept two of his sons, and a particularly promising grandson. In fact Hubert has developed so well that I didn't even enter him at the Bromyard fair this year, because he's taken first premium there once already. We're going directly to the county exhibition at Hereford next week."

"Directly to Hereford. Indeed!"

"Yes, and I feel certain he'll win one of the silver goblets." Her voice gained confidence. "His sire took first place last year among the Bulls of Any Breed, and Hubert is a finer animal on several counts. Only—I'm hoping that Hermione's husband will like them all."

"The man would be a fool not to adore them, I'm sure."

"Well, he need not write poetry to them," she admitted. "Some good pasturage will be sufficient."

"No love poems, of course," he said gravely. "He wouldn't wish to make Lady Hermione jealous. But surely an ode would be appropriate?"