Randolph's brother, Lawrence. And surely he loved Julie Stratford, and he loved watching 
her dance with his son. Elliott was here on account of his son. Of course Julie wasn't 
really going to marry Alex. At least not any time soon. But it was the only clear hope on 
the horizon that Alex might acquire the money he needed to maintain the landed estates he 
would inherit, the wealth that was supposed to go along with an old title, and seldom did 
anymore.
  
  The sad part was that Alex loved Julie. The money meant nothing to either of them, 
really. It was the older generation that did the scheming, and the planning, as they have 
always done.
  
  Elliott leaned against the gilded railing, gazing down at the soft drift of young 
couples turning beneath him, and for a moment, he tried to shut out the din of voices, 
and hear only the sweet strains of the waltz.
  
  But Randolph Stratford was talking again. Randolph was assuring Elliott that Julie 
needed only a little prodding. If only Lawrence would say the word, his daughter would 
give in.
  
  "Give Henry a chance,"  Randolph said again." He's only been in Egypt a week. If 
Lawrence will take the initiative ..."
  
  "But why,"  Elliott asked," should Lawrence do mat?"
  
  Silence.
  
  Elliott knew Lawrence better than Randolph knew him. Elliott and Lawrence. No one 
really knew the whole story, except the two men themselves. At Oxford years ago, in a 
carefree world, they had been lovers, and the year after they'd finished, they had spent 
a winter together south of Cairo in a houseboat on the Nile. Inevitably the world had 
separated them. Elliott had married Edith Christian, an American heiress. Lawrence had 
built Stratford Shipping into an empire.
  
  But their friendship had never faltered. They had spent countless holidays in Egypt 
together. They could still argue all night long about history, ruins, archaeological 
discoveries, poetry, what have you. Elliott had been the only one who really understood 
when Lawrence retired and went to Egypt. Elliott had envied Lawrence. And there had been 
the first bitterness between them. In the small hours, when die wine flowed, Lawrence had 
called Elliott a coward, for spending his remaining years in London in a world he did not 
value; a world which gave him no joy. Elliott had criticized Lawrence for being blind and 
stupid. After all, Lawrence was rich beyond Elliott's wildest dreams; and Lawrence was a 
widower with a clever and independent daughter. Elliott had a wife and son who needed him 
day in and day out to regulate the successes of their wholly respectable and conventional 
lives.
  
  "All I mean to say,"  Randolph pressed," is that if Lawrence would express his wish 
about this marriage ..."
  
  "And the small matter of the twenty thousand pounds?"  Elliott asked suddenly. The tone 
was soft, polite, but the question was unforgivably rude. Nevertheless he persisted." 
Edith will be back from France in a week and she's certain to notice that the necklace is 
missing. You know, she always does."
  
  Randolph didn't answer.
  
  Elliott laughed softly, but not at Randolph, not even at himself. And certainly not at 
Edith, who had only a little more money now than Elliott did and most of it in plate and 
jewels.
  
  Perhaps Elliott laughed because the music made him giddy; or something about the vision 
of Julie Stratford, dancing down there with Alex, touched his heart. Or perhaps because 
of late he had lost the ability to speak any longer in euphemisms and half-truths. It was 
gone along with his physical stamina, and the sense of well-being he had enjoyed 
throughout his youth.
  
  Now his joints hurt more and more with every passing winter; and he could not walk half 
a mile any longer in the country without suffering a severe pain in his chest. He did not 
mind having white hair at fifty-five, perhaps because he knew he looked rather good with 
it. But it bruised him secretly and deeply to have to use a cane wherever he went. These 
were all mere shadows, however, of what was yet to come.
  
  Old age, weakness, dependence. Pray that Alex was happily married to the Stratford 
millions, and not before too long!
  
  He felt restless, suddenly; dissatisfied. The soft swooshing music annoyed him; sick to 
death of Strauss, actually. But it was something keener.
  
  He wanted to explain it suddenly to Randolph, that he, Elliott, had made some crucial 
mistake a long time ago. Something to do with those long nights in Egypt, when he and 
Lawrence would walk through the black streets of Cairo together, or rail at each other 
drunkenly in the little saloon of the boat. Lawrence
  
  had somehow managed to live his life along heroic proportions; he had accomplished 
things of which others were simply incapable. Elliott had moved with the current. 
Lawrence had escaped to Egypt, back to the desert, the temples, to those clear 
star-filled nights.
  
  God, how he missed Lawrence. In the last three years they had exchanged only a handful 
of letters, but the old understanding would never grow dim.
  
  "Henry took some papers with him,"  Randolph said," small matter of family stock."  He 
glanced about warily, too warily. Elliott was going to laugh again.
  
  "If it goes as I hope,"  Randolph continued," I'll pay you everything I owe you, and 
the marriage will take place within six months, I give you my word."  Elliott smiled.
  
  "Randolph, the marriage may or may not happen; it may or may not solve things for both 
of us-" "Don't say mat, old boy."
  
  "But I must have that twenty thousand pounds before Edith comes home,"