Rumsford, twenty years Warne’s senior, had married Lady Cassandra Arden when Warne was ten, and their marriage had produced a degree of felicity with which neither found fault. With the covers cleared and a good claret to sustain them, Warne revealed his intention to marry. “Ah, that explains the satin knee breeches,” said Rumsford referring to Warne’s evening clothes. “Going to look over this year’s crop, are you?” he asked. “I thought I would try the Duchess of Somerset’s ball,” Warne replied. He had called on his sister’s friend Maria Sefton that afternoon, and she had recommended the duchess’s ball. Rumsford nodded approvingly. “Too bad Cassandra is in Bath. She could tell you about this year’s girls. Remarkably good information she has. Daresay Maria will look after you.” Unspoken was the awareness that Warne’s welcome in society would not be warm.
