had her mistress.

What a character it had been then with its furies and its disciplines,
its indulgences and its amazing restrictions, its sympathies and cold
clodded cruelties, its tremendous sense of the dramatic moment so that
again and again a position that had been nearly surrendered was held and
saved. She had never been beautiful, always little and sharp and
sometimes even wizened. But she gained her effects one way or another
and beat beautiful and wise and wonderful women off the field.

And then sweeping down upon her had come disease. At first it had been
fought and magnificently fought. But it was the horror of its unexpected
ravages that had been so difficult to combat. She had never known when
the pain would be upon her--it might seize her at any public moment and
her retreat be compelled before the whole world. There had been doctors
and doctors and doctors, and then operation after operation, but no one
had done any good until Dr. Christopher had come to her, and now, for
years, he had been keeping her alive.

Out of that very necessity of disease, however, had she dragged her
drama. She had retired from the world, not as an old woman beaten by
pain, but as a priestess might withdraw within her sanctuary or some
great queen demand her privacy.

And it had its effect. Very, very carefully were chosen to see her only
those who might convey to the world the right impression. The world was
given to understand that the Duchess was now more wonderful than she had
ever been, and it was so long since the world at large had seen her that
every sort of story was abroad.

Certain old ladies like Lady Carloes who played bridge with her gained
most of their public importance from their intimacy with her. It was
rumoured that at any moment she might return and take her place again in
the world, old though she was.

All this was known to Dorchester and she smiled grimly as she thought of
it. The real Duchess! Perhaps she and Dr. Christopher alone in all the
world knew the intricacies, the inconsistencies of that amazing figure.
From the moment that illness had come every peculiarity had grown. Her
self-indulgences, her temper, her pride, her egotism--now knew, in
private, no restraint. And yet when her friends were there or anyone at
all from the outside world she displayed the old dignity, the old grand
air, the old imperious quiet that belonged to no one else alive.

But what, during these last years, Lady Ad