A young woman sits in the drawing room, gazing out the window. She doesn’t move as the door opens and a middle aged man sweeps in.

“Well now! When did my squirrel come home?”

She continues to observe the rosebushes, refusing to acknowledge the endearment. “I arrived by steamer this morning. I shall only be staying the night.”

Hie eyes alight upon an untouched dish of biscuits. “Not even taken a bite at a macaroon or two?”

“I’m not hungry.”

He looks at her, surprised and stung by her dismissal. “What on earth has gotten into you?”

She looks down at her tightly clasped hands. “Is this yours, this knitting? This well spun web of deceit?” Her voice gets quieter as her eyes lock onto his. “I trusted you.”

“Of what do you speak? The thing perplexes me altogether.”

“You know. Do not pretend otherwise.”

“You mean Mr. Garside?”

She flinches at the name. “Do not speak of him. There is a black cross over the name.”

“I had no choice! It was the law!”

She looks away. “Then it must be a very foolish law.”