“I have something of a creative inheritance in mind for my children, you see, and after seeing Dolores for myself, my mind is made up.” Her eyes never left him, but her hand arched over my wrist. If it actually touched, it was so delicately that I couldn’t tell. Stranger still, as Camille was neither scientist nor subject, the dowager didn’t seem to acknowledge her presence at all. “And, of course, I know how important reliable funding is in the sciences. My late husband was quite insistent that it not go overlooked in times of peace and excitement.”

She fascinated me, to say the least. The way she seemed harmless and almost silly, the way I knew she couldn’t have been. It wasn’t only the way she held the Professor and Camille’s rapt attention, but the way others made unspoken salutation in passing or else congregated in her peripheral view so as to be the very next to gain an audience.

She was in no way self-conscious and easily drifted from the subject of her husband’s political position to her recent consideration that the Professor’s research may not have been precisely what her husband had in mind when he encouraged her to support scientific advancements. She only finally hinted at her desire when she’d engaged us for the better part of an hour. Her expression became serious. “As I’m sure you know, my father endured dementia in his autumn years, brought on one would think by a hardening of the arteries. It isn’t a graceful topic of conversation, but you’re a man of science, we can be honest. It changed him entirely, so much so that my mother could not entertain, but at first it was only the most minute alteration. Little things which, of course, I won’t bother you with.”

She stopped herself, hemming and lifting her chin as though to avoid some pungent odor. Where her voice had been, orchestra music swelled in from another room, and in a moment, she began to smile.

“And I have what I think is a most creative inheritance in mind for my children, which news of Dolores has inspired, and what with this business of someday rationing extractions, as though we’re at war. Well! I do hope you’ll make a moment for me in your office on Monday, before tea.”

Of course, the Professor agreed immediately, as though he knew his entire schedule offhand and was certain there would be nothing to conflict with her request, and the dowager took her leave to enjoy the night’s festivities.

The mysterious proposal intrigued me, and as I was introduced and admired and offered assorted hors d’oeuvres, my mind returned to the Professor’s office and what might soon transpire there.

“Camille will never forgive me if you don’t enjoy yourself,” he whispered as we stood politely for a reporter and his photographer.