Four courses were not, in themselves, enough time to get the measure of a man—but then, Roslyn Ross was quite certain she had the measure of Alfred Darrow.

In spite of this, she was quite resolved to give the man one last-ditch effort to change her opinion of him, for Zelda's sake—and if not, well, hopefully four courses would be long enough to show Zelda how utterly unsuited Mr. Darrow was to life within their family.

(Fleetingly, it had occurred to her that Zelda might fit perfectly well with the Darrows even if Mr. Darrow did not fit in with the Fisks. While this might be a risk in other families, though, Ros knew her sister far too well to worry about such an abandonment.)

Ros had been quite insistent that Zelda arrive early, had given her sister a once-over, and had sent her sister upstairs to have her hair styled, as, "We're entertaining, even if it's mostly family."

Roslyn Ross had never much wanted to entertain outside of the family. Fortunately for Zelda, even if she became Mrs. Darrow, Alfred was unlikely to ever become Minister Darrow.

The witch sat in a chair nearby as her sister had her hair tugged hither and fro, nodding in satisfaction when the styling was completed.

"Why Alfred Darrow?" she half-sighed when her maid had left the room, closing the door quietly, and left the sisters alone. Ros had never asked Zelda that question outright before, but now seemed as good a time as any.

Roslyn stiffened.

Love. Zelda loved Mr. Darrow. On the one hand, she oughtn't have been surprised—after all, why would her generally sensible have kept an utter buffoon about for so long if she wasn't in love with him? Hearing her younger sister say the words aloud, though, was an entirely different matter entirely, as Ros was now forced to process, to accept on some level.

She did not like it.

It would only make it harder on Zelda when he proved utterly impossible to be with.

"Yes," she settled on at last. "That would be the question."

"Yes, yes that does sound like love," Roslyn murmured, more to herself than to her company. It was much the same with Justin, of course, though rather a more mature tree than Zelda and Mr. Darrow's sapling.

Unfortunately, love was never the whole of the equation.

"I am glad, dearest, that you have a love to appreciate," she offered carefully, her smile tentative. She did not wish to encourage Zelda down this path by any means, but love was a rarity in so many lives that she could not ignore the declaration altogether. "But I worry, Zelda—you cannot eat love, cannot burn it for warmth. It does not keep a roof above your head, nor does it give you status among society—and no matter what path you choose to walk, you will need status in society."

Ros raised both blond brows, the simple action saying all that needed saying: but?

"Planning and doing are two very different things," Roslyn pointed out, "and while you wait for his grand schemes to bear fruit, your own...blossoms are...are dying on the bush."

It was not a perfect metaphor. It was barely even a coherent metaphor.

"That is to say," Roslyn clarified, "that every day you spend in his company without certain assurances—such as the support of our father—that status dwindles."

Alfred Darrow was nothing like Justin Ross. He was not in a position to support a wife, did not have a reputable (even boring!) history to recommend him. He was, at best, a risky gamble, and Roslyn Ross had never been one to roll the dice.

"You could not be Xena even if you tried," Roslyn reassured(?) her sister kindly. "You have been altogether your own person since the day you were born, and there is very little in this life that I wish for more than your happiness. But I am older than you—even if you will not concede wiser—and so I must look ahead to your long-term happiness, not just what brings you joy here and now."

Roslyn sighed, remaining quiet for a long moment. Her sister was stubborn, a trait they shared, and she could not say with one breath that she loved and respected Zelda and in the other completely ignore her sister's wishes.

"If," she offered, her words coming out in slow and reluctant, but steady, progress, "you cannot imagine any situation in which Mr. Darrow might prompt you to regret choosing him in a year, a decade, a century from now, then I suppose I must trust you—at least for the length of dinner."

"Dinner might not include dessert," she cautioned wryly, already wondering if she ought to regret her choice in this instance.