Jim Halpert spent the next day getting ready. He did not admit this to himself, however, but rather convinced himself that he spent it in pleasurable pursuits: a little whist with friends, a round of boxing at Jackson’s—where he was not accounted among the nonpareils but nevertheless could hold his own—a spot of tea at a particularly familiar and delicious pie shop. But in actual fact these activities never held above a pittance of his mind at any one time, for it was focused entirely on the upcoming evening. He was certain he would see her again, since it was most literally her job to be present, but would he be able to occupy her attention to a similar degree? It seemed unlikely, regardless of the presence or absence of her fiancée, seeing as Scott had only asked her to chaperone him due to his unfamiliarity with these events, an excuse not liable to be brought out on his side at the second such affair in the course of a single week. What, then, could he do to ensure that he might while away the time in Pamela Beesly’s company? A single dance could comfortably be presumed, and perhaps, if that dance were rightly timed, the time immediately preceding or following it might be included as well. A game of whist had been suggested at their chance encounter, which might in turn be the predicate for a reasonable amount of conversation if properly handled. He was at a loss to go any further, but his innate good sense fortunately reared its head and reminded him that what he liked about Miss Beesly—among a great many other things—was the ease with which they communicated ex tempore, and that therefore overpreparing for the time they might spend together would be entirely opposite from the purpose. Nevertheless, he spent the entire day living out the Shakespearean dictum that the readiness is all, living forever in the if it be not now, yet it will come of the moment.

Pam Beesly, had she but known of it, could have used some of that readiness herself. Her day was all fluster and bluster, filled with unprepared tradesmen, cupboards already ransacked by the previous partygoers, and a cook whom Michael had somehow forgotten to notify that he would be serving an additional fifty or so guests—not for dinner, but for the after-dinner delicacies that were both the cook’s and the Colonel’s specialty, and which, the cook explained at tedious length, generally required at least (at least) thirty-six hours of advance preparation. In the result they were prepared, but not without much expostulation, some of it in French and some in what Pam was certain was some kind of Eastern European language distinguished (she was sure) for its vulgarity on the one hand and (she was grateful) for its unintelligibility to her on the other. Perhaps Dwight would know, but as she had no intention of asking him, it really made no nevermind. Around this exchange she prepared the ballroom, answered several letters on Michael’s behalf, and generally played the role of hostess to an otherwise notably bachelor establishment. She was unclear exactly why the Colonel’s apartments always stank of bacon and unwashed linens, but she would be—well, she would refrain from saying what she would be, but it would probably be best expressed in the cook’s language—if she would allow it to remain so when guests were coming over. She supervised, pitched in, and generally made it all happen, despite the Colonel’s rather ineffectual—or perhaps, one might say, whatever went beyond ineffectual into the reverse—attempts to help. When she returned for a brief (indeed, but momentary) sojourn of relief in her own rooms, she found a card left with her landlady from Roy saying only that he would not be accompanying her tonight, as Mr. Philbin had a horse in some local race or other and Roy would be joining his party to see it (as he wrote) win. She had no doubts that this would only result in the poor horse casting a shoe or some such other form of bad luck, but dismissed the likely increase in debt from her mind, focusing only on the fact that Roy would not be there and therefore her—well, the Colonel’s—table would be quite out for dinner. She reconciled this difficulty quickly by choosing to demur from dinner herself, thus rebalancing the table, while simultaneously permitting her an additional hour or so to make sure the ballroom would be up to snuff once the small gathering in the dining room was joined by the larger set of invitees for the evening’s entertainment. She herself grabbed a handful of the sliced potatoes that cook had prepared as an appetizer and washed them down with hot tea, hoping that this, and her usual refraining from alcohol in order to keep a straight head in case one of Michael’s ideas came to a bad end mid-ball, would keep her steady through the evening.

The evening was, as these things go, a surprising success, at least as beginnings went. Her absence went unremarked on at dinner, and the extra hour permitted the ballroom to shine at its best once the larger party began to occupy it. She even had a few extra moments to slide into the refreshment table and extract a delicacy for herself—one of her favorites, a vaguely Turkish dish consisting of yoghurt whipped into a froth and studded with raspberries and blackberries for taste and color—and was about to dig into it to satisfy her hunger when a voice she had already begun to recognize filtered into her consciousness.

For his own part, Jim Halpert wasn’t sure what devil or angel was looking out for him in the moment he stepped into the ballroom, but he was certain some being beyond the ordinary was involved—more than involved, taking an active interest in his affairs—for he no sooner stepped into the ballroom, a few paces ahead of Mark and their mutual friend, the Lord Ryan Howard, than he saw the object of his…infatuation break out of the press of bodies and make her way to the refreshment table. Indicating to Mark and Ryan that he would obtain refreshment for the three of them and meet them by the windows, he slipped over to greet Miss Beesly, only to notice that the dish she was about to partake of was one he was greatly familiar with from his time in Vienna—a Turkish confection made of yoghurt—and that it was a colour he had been taught in Vienna was only attained when the yoghurt in question had turned from delightfully tart to offensively nauseating. He therefore interrupted her without thinking, hoping beyond hope that he had caught her immediately before rather than immediately after the fatal taste that would reveal the truth of his accusation.

“Pardon me, and I know it is very impertinent of me to speak of it, not to mention that there is no good reason that I should know it, but I’m afraid the mixed-berry yoghurt you’re about to eat is rather spoilt.”