The name was familiar, mostly from society – but Jemima wouldn’t have recognised him from so brief a glance, not with the apparent haircut he had had; the picture she had of Mr. Dodonus in her mind had been of an eccentric with wild curly hair. “Oh, of course,” she murmured, as if it had been obvious. She knew more of the man – a poet? a Seer? a general oddity? – by reputation than any personal interaction with him, but in an attempt to excuse her unfamiliarity, she added, “I thought he was usually – more colourful.” As far as she had heard, his fashions were usually distinctive from a distance. And Ford suggesting that he was a friend made even less sense for the way he had barged past without stopping to say a word to them. If it had been accidental, wouldn’t he have glanced back and noticed who it was? And if they were friends, whyever hadn’t he been able to come to the wedding?

A crease formed between her eyebrows.

“Maybe he didn’t realise it was you,” she said finally, in case Ford was upset. “Do you – want to go say hello?” He had come over to look out for her, she realised; but she would hardly stop him going to speak to his friend, if he wanted.

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