Mrs Shackleford surrounded herself with handsome men with whom she alternately flirted and became sorrowful as she talked about her lost son. Asa was seated between a Mr Blanning and a Mr Shatton, who said they were old acquaintances of the late Mr Shackleford from the Society of Merchant Venturers. She obeyed Madame’s rules to the letter, dividing her attention equally and making monosyllabic replies to their remarks about how much she must enjoy staying at Compton Wyatt. Shackleford, at the far end of the table, wore a coat of bronze silk, his head alternately inclined to one lady or another, but his thoughts, Asa knew, were always with her. Whenever she happened to glance his way she caught his eye and felt a pang of regret that she was not next to him for this last meal so that she could talk about Mr Lambert, or at least argue with him about what he’d done for Warren. Afterwards they were ushered to the gallery, where the five sets of glass doors had been thrown wide open so that guests might stroll on the terrace.
