The delicate clink of china and the soft clatter of cutlery broke the stillness of the dining room. It was a pleasant tinkling of sound amidst the hushed atmosphere. A fire guttered drowsily in the hearth, throwing languid shadows across the oak-panelled walls. At the head of the table, Sebastian Montrose, strikingly handsome and impeccably turned out in a subtly opulent manner took his place beside Madeline, the focus of his attention, and regarded her companions with politeness, although his manner was slightly reserved.

Madeline’s circle of friends, four of them, each imbued with their own distinct flavour of skepticism, observed Sebastian with the scrutiny of naturalists examining an exotic specimen. The tacit message was unmistakable: Madeline was not to be toyed with. They, all four, felt compelled to defend her reputation, and Sebastian, newly initiated into their circle, was clearly the subject of their watchful gaze. They clearly considered him an interloper of unknown pedigree.

Diana, always uncomfortable of pauses, was the first to break the silence.

"Sebastian," she intoned languidly, swirling her wine glass with a practiced ease, "you’ve been rather reticent regarding the particulars of your acquaintance." Did you meet in Town? Or did Madeline manage to ensnare you in some pastoral idyll?

Sebastian, recognising that the game was afoot, summoned a casual smile and inclined himself slightly towards Madeline, as if invoking the memory anew.

"Not at all," he commenced. We met at a Lady Soames’ garden party. It was a rather a jolly affair. Someone had procured a gramophone, and there was dancing.

"Dancing!" snapped Henry, a young man whose hair was as sparse as his forbearance, “at a garden party? God’s Teeth! It’s all been downhill since the war!”

Madeline, having idly scrutinised her fingernails, permitted herself a smile, gentle and intimate. "It was such fun though, Henry," she remarked.

“Yet, I presume you are not here to pass judgement on what happens a garden parties these days?” Sebastian interjected, casting his remarks into the air with an air of studied indifference. "You have come, I rather suspect, to ascertain whether I am a fitting companion."

Diana and Henry shared a knowing look, while Beatrice, who had been methodically dismantling a cold partridge on her plate, turned her attention to Sebastian with an intensity that suggested she were some sort of demigod, weighing his soul in the balance.

“Fitting,” she remarked with an icy detachment, "is a term that varies greatly in its relativity."

There lingered a moment, dense and laden with scrutiny, as Sebastian meticulously adjusted his napkin with an air of studied composure. The line of his mouth hardened, and beneath the veneer of composure, a faint glimmer of irritation could be discerned. He understood the dynamics at play; Madeline’s acquaintances would insist on their entitlements, and it fell to him, however begrudgingly, to assume the role of the polite courtier seeking admittance to the throne room.

"Quite right," he replied, at last locking eyes with Beatrice. “However, if I might say, suitability, as you have articulated, is hardly a matter of singular perspective. Madeline and I… well, we are splendidly suited to one another precisely due to our differences.”

Henry emitted a brief, sardonic chuckle. "How delightfully convenient."

"Indeed," Sebastian maintained, undeterred. “Her clarity of purpose is nothing short of extraordinary, and I find myself admiring it more and more with each passing day.” He lingered, permitting the words to take root in the air. "As for myself, I daresay I offer a certain lightness of touch, a perspective on existence that remains unburdened by the shackles of expectation. An insouciance of detachment, as it were.”

"And you consider that sufficient, or even beneficial?” enquired Diana, her tone cutting. She was, Sebastian detected, on the teetering edge of ‘taking a dim view.’

Sebastian smiled, reclining ever so slightly in his chair, his fingers delicately tracing the rim of his wine glass. "Sufficient? It is, I daresay, rather more than sufficient. Madeline requires not a mere echo of her musings. What we possess is a harmonious duality, akin to the opposing faces of a coin. One facet offers order, while the other invites potential.”

The atmosphere at the table grew palpably charged. Beatrice, with a slight narrowing of her eyes, was the first to make her response known.

"Then let us speak plainly," she remarked. “Madeline is not merely some blossom to be gathered in and then cast aside. She has previously been subject to unfortunate treatment by a certain individual who should have behaved better and we would not let that happen again.”

"I am aware of her past," Sebastian responded, his voice gentle, “and I can assure you, I am not here for mere transient diversion. I do not take Madeline’s feelings lightly.”

Madeline, who had maintained a notable reticence, permitted her eyes to linger upon Sebastian at this moment. In her eyes, there flickered an intensity, a subtle recognition of the unspoken truths that lingered in the air. She extended her hand, almost in a daze, and brushed against his arm, an imperceptible motion, yet sufficient to convey her assent.

Henry, with a certain reluctance, filled his glass. "Indeed, Montrose, your eloquence is commendable; however, one might find that words possess a certain economy.”

"Indeed," Sebastian agreed, “one hesitates to overstate one’s feelings. It is such an American trend, don’t you find?” He smiled, a gesture both charming and disarming.

The ensuing silence enveloped the room in an unanticipated warmth. Diana had relaxed. Beatrice, ever the last to yield, inclined her head with a calculated nod of assent.

"Well," she remarked at last, a trace of acquiescence in her voice, "perhaps you shall suffice."

At this, Madeline ascended from her chair with an elegance that dispelled the tension entirely. "I assured you that Sebastian would meet expectations," she remarked, “Sebastian does a great deal more than merely ‘suffice’.” A self-satisfied smile brushed her lips. "You lot are utterly insufferable."

As they ambled towards the drawing room for the usual postprandial libations, vats thereof, Diana tarried a pace behind Sebastian and murmured, just sufficiently audibly for him to catch her words:

“We shall observe whether you maintain your composure.” "It is indeed a protracted journey you are embarked upon, Montrose."

Sebastian, unperturbed, offered a courteous smile. "I do love to travel, don’t you?”