ven supper for four was served in the
Duchess's little green room, behind her bedroom (a little room like a
box with a green wall-paper, a card-table and silver candlesticks). They
played, sometimes, until three or four o'clock in the morning; the
Duchess played an exceedingly good game and Mrs. Brunning (a bony little
woman like a plucked chicken) was the best bridge player in London. The
other two were moderate, but made mistakes which allowed the Duchess the
free use of her most caustic wit and satire.

Lord John came just before dinner as he always did for a few minutes
every evening. He stood there, fat and smiling and amiable and, as
always, a little nervous.

"Well, John?"

She liked John the best of her children, although he was, of course, the
most fearful fool, but she liked his big broad face and he was always
clean and healthy; moreover, she could use him more easily than any of
them.

"Bridge to-night, mother, isn't it?"

"Yes. Not so hot this evening. Just give me that book. Turn the lamp up
a little--no--not that one. The de Goncourt book. Yes. Thank you."

"Anything I can get for you, mother? Anyone I can send to you?"

He was thinking, as he smiled down at her, "She's old to-night--old and
tired. This hot weather...."

She looked up at him before she settled herself--

"Roddy Seddon came this afternoon----"

"Yes. I know."

Suddenly his heart began to beat. He had known, during all these last
weeks, of what the common talk had been. He knew, too, what his
conscience had told him, and he knew, too, how perpetually he had
silenced that same conscience.

"He asked me whether he had my permission to propose to Rachel----"

"Yes."

"Of course I gave it him. I thought it most suitable in every way."

Now was Lord John's moment. He knew, even as it descended upon him, what
was the right to do. He must protest--Roddy Seddon was not the right man
to marry Rachel, Rachel who was to him more than anyone in the world--

He must protest--

And then with that impulse went the old warning that because his mother
seemed to him older and feebler to-night than he had ever known her,
therefore if he spoke now, it would involve far more than the immediate
dispute. There was a sudden impulse in him to risk discomfort, to risk a
scene, to break, perhaps, in the new assertion of his authority, all the
old domination, to smash a tradition to pieces.

He glanced at his mother. She met his eyes. He knew th