“Not the finest example. But I like the pinchbeck. Not as good as gold or brass, but that’s the point, really; it won’t tarnish either. Look, you can give it a ribbon and wear it, so it’s always with you.” He took it from my hand, pulled a velvet ribbon through, and tied it around my neck. I blushed at the feeling of his fingers near the collar of my dress, not for any impropriety; it simply felt what it must be like to have a father who cared for you, who might have once tied your laces, or patched a scraped knee. I raised the pinchbeck glass again to study the walnut, its grooves like dry riverbeds crusted with mud.

“How much the small world resembles the large,” I said.

“Untold worlds, big and small, right in front of us, everywhere.”

I lowered the glass and looked at him. His high forehead was shiny and smooth as a peeled potato. He was dressed plainly, like a clergyman, but his sparse hair misbehaved, as if ideas sprouted from the top of his head. A thought flew into me that maybe he’d turned all his grief over his wife’s death to curiosity, looked away from the pain inside to the wonders without, whether for himself or his daughter, I couldn’t guess.

“I can almost see the wheels turning,” he said.

“I can’t stop it, no matter how hard I try.”

“Why would you?” he asked, tilting his head as he did with Jane.

“Because it hurts sometimes,” I said, without thinking first.

He looked at me and smiled, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. “It’s a gift to be a thinker, to like ideas. But it’s a burden too. One can never turn away.”

“I don’t know many ideas, not really.”

“But you must be a great reader. All the girls at Jane’s school—”

I wanted to lie. I was embarrassed to tell him what counted as an education for me. I stammered instead. “I’m afraid I don’t go to school with—”

“Oh,” he said. “Apologies. I just assumed—”

“Though I do love to read. But books are … hard to come by.”

“Well, I’ve enough of my own for a small circulating library. When you come to Jane’s birthday, I’ll be glad to lend you whatever you like.”

My heart sank. I looked at the gaggle of girls by the door, all perfect curls, fine lace, and frippery. I would never be one of them, no matter how much I wanted it, or how hard I tried. Jane had not seen fit to invite me, or seen me fit to invite. “That’s kind of you,” I sputtered, trying to hide my hurt. But he saw it.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure Jane means to ask you. Still plenty of time. Hard to keep up with her social swirl.”