If the pair had not drawn attention before, they certainly were now.

Balthazar was torn. Before him was the woman who had left him at the alter, who had publicly humiliated him, who had insisted she did not love him. Not a man alive would suggest he owed Miss Lovegood anything—she had shigged him out of his dignity, his children out of a maternal figure (though to be fair, had saved herself from the Topaz situation).

But she was clearly upset, and for a time, he had borne her affection. His father had never been a particularly compassionate man, but Gaylord Urquart had at the least instilled in his son a basic degree of chivalry. A glowsy weight upon him—guilt? Sadness?—Balthazar reached into his jacket, producing a handkerchief for the young woman.

"There, there," he offered kindly, more gentleness to his tone now. In spite of what had happened, Balt knew she was not some fly-by-sky without a head on her shoulders. She deserved some measure of care.