Ernest typically found it was best not to ask too many questions when his wife presented him with a social engagement for his calendar. The answers were inevitable disappointing, and over the years he had made something of a game of trying to glean who was hosting the event and what it was for after he'd already arrived. He could spot a hostess at a hundred yards, though the hosts were sometimes less conspicuous, depending on their style. Themed parties were usually easy to identify. Causes, on the other hand, could be more elusive. This one was proving absolutely baffling. Something related to the earth, he supposed, from the charms on the ceiling and floor. Not the literal earth, though, or else why bother with all of the exotic food?

Some sort of international aid organization was his best guess so far, though he was hoping he'd be able to refine it as the night went on and determine what it was they actually did. He'd check his work in the carriage ride on the way home, by listening in on Rufina's casual conversation to see how close he'd come — assuming, of course, that she cared enough to talk about it. With the less impressive events, she sometimes didn't.

He'd been playing this game secretly for several years and had never mentioned it to another soul, but for some reason when the woman next to him spoke up, he considered sharing it with her. She had an air about her that was immediately sympathetic to him — she was trying to seem engaged with something she clearly did not want to enjoy, which was how he had been at social events ever since he'd married Rufina.

"I didn't read the plaque when we came in," he confessed quietly. "So I've been trying to determine the cause for the evening. My best guess is sending food to tribes of starving Africans — what do you think? Hot or cold?"

She, presumably, knew why they were here. Hopefully she would be more amused by his antics than she was by the party.