Somes opened the door, and the first half dozen of their guests entered. Introductions were made, while a maid made their coats disappear, and Stone heard spoken, for the first time in his life, the words “And this is my husband.”

The seventh person through the door was a tall, slender man with a head full of graying hair and a supercilious expression.

“Stone, this is our architect, Timothy Rutledge. Tim, this is my husband, Stone Barrington.” Those unfamiliar words again.

Stone extended his hand, and Rutledge gripped it lightly by the fingers, as if he were warding off a bone-crushing handshake. “How do you do?” he said, as if he didn’t care how Stone or anyone else did.

“Good to meet you,” Stone lied. “You’ve done a very fine job on the house.” That was the truth.

One corner of Rutledge’s mouth turned up slightly. “You’re very kind to say so,” he replied, as if kindness were a curse.

Arrington forestalled any more conversation between them by taking Rutledge by the arm and introducing him to someone else.

Once the flood of arrivals subsided from a river to a trickle, Stone grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing silver tray and circulated, mustering all the charm at his disposal. He was greeted, in most cases, by some warmth, and in others, by a trace of sleet. He would have to ask Arrington later what caused the dividing line. The eyes of the women invariably darted from console to chandelier to carpet, while the men, mostly, looked for a waiter bearing booze, and they didn’t seem to care what kind.

A bit after seven, when Arrington judged that enough lubrication had been passed among her guests, she nodded at Somes, who produced a silver bell and walked around the house, singing, “Dinner is served. Dinner is served in the dining room!”

The string quartet sawed away on some Vivaldi while the guests rushed the dining room and the buffet on the groaning board. Half an hour later they were distributed around the ground floor on furniture, the stairs, and on the floor, scarfing up filet of beef or wild salmon and allowing Somes to repeatedly refill their flutes.

Stone shared a small sofa in the living room with a plump, beautifully coiffed Virginia matron named Vilia.

“A beautiful name,” he said. “I’ve always loved the Lehár song.”

“From my mother’s favorite operetta,” she said, smiling broadly at his recognition.

“I once saw a production of The Merry Widow, due to circumstances beyond my control, entirely in Finnish.”

“And how did that come about?” she asked.