le--possibly as the result of her friend's
ministrations--was able to appear at the dinner-table, rather pale and
pink-nosed, and casting tenderly reproachful glances at her grandson,
who faced them with impervious serenity; and the situation was relieved
by the fact that Miss Viner, as usual, had remained in the school-room
with her pupil.

Darrow conjectured that the real clash of arms would not take place till
the morrow; and wishing to leave the field open to the contestants he
set out early on a solitary walk. It was nearly luncheon-time when he
returned from it and came upon Anna just emerging from the house. She
had on her hat and jacket and was apparently coming forth to seek him,
for she said at once: "Madame de Chantelle wants you to go up to her."

"To go up to her? Now?"

"That's the message she sent. She appears to rely on you to do
something." She added with a smile: "Whatever it is, let's have it
over!"

Darrow, through his rising sense of apprehension, wondered why, instead
of merely going for a walk, he had not jumped into the first train and
got out of the way till Owen's affairs were finally settled.

"But what in the name of goodness can I do?" he protested, following
Anna back into the hall.

"I don't know. But Owen seems so to rely on you, too----"

"Owen! Is HE to be there?"

"No. But you know I told him he could count on you."

"But I've said to your mother-in-law all I could."

"Well, then you can only repeat it."

This did not seem to Darrow to simplify his case as much as she appeared
to think; and once more he had a movement of recoil. "There's no
possible reason for my being mixed up in this affair!"

Anna gave him a reproachful glance. "Not the fact that I am?" she
reminded him; but even this only stiffened his resistance.

"Why should you be, either--to this extent?"

The question made her pause. She glanced about the hall, as if to be
sure they had it to themselves; and then, in a lowered voice: "I don't
know," she suddenly confessed; "but, somehow, if THEY'RE not happy I
feel as if we shouldn't be."

"Oh, well--" Darrow acquiesced, in the tone of the man who perforce
yields to so lovely an unreasonableness. Escape was, after all,
impossible, and he could only resign himself to being led to Madame de
Chantelle's door.

Within, among the bric-a-brac and furbelows, he found Miss Painter
seated in a redundant purple armchair with the incongruous air of a
horseman bestrid