herself upon the choice. As Mr. Lumlough subsequently
remarked to his panting partner, in his customary slang, "She had a
nerve!"

Then, with head on one side, she coyly handed the Veuve Clicquot to the
thankful young man, and allowed herself to be gathered to the heart of
the portly, jubilant colonel, who, loving her, saw the jaunty gilded
asp as a nimbus around her head.

Of Damaris there was no sign, and the old lady's heart, through some
unaccountable terror, seemed as if it would sink into her small crimson
shoes, though outwardly she showed no sign of the fear that gripped her.

"I expect she has gone upstairs, or out into the grounds to give
Wellington a run--I don't see him anywhere. Come, Hobson; give me your
arm to the lift."

A deep growl welcomed them as the maid opened the sitting-room door and
switched on the light as the ladies entered. Wellington lay near the
balcony window, head on paws, with the book his mistress had given him
between his teeth. He rose slowly, very slowly, eyes red, ruff
bristling round the spiked collar, growling menacingly.

"My dear," said the duchess quietly, "just stand still. Damaris has
gone away. He is always like this when she has left him. Hobson, go
and see if you can find Jane Coop. I hope to goodness you don't."

She walked across the room and passed close to the dog, who turned his
head and, growling savagely, watched her as she moved. Then she came
back and sat down quite near him, and leaning down arranged the buckle
on her shoe, whilst Jill stood perfectly still, filled with admiration
for the old woman, who was not acting out of bravado but simply
tackling the situation in the only possible way.

Once let a bulldog on guard know that you do not want to take away or
touch his carefully-guarded possessions, and that you are not in the
least bit afraid of him, and all will be well.

"Come over here, Jill."

Jill, who had removed her veil and satin mantle, crossed the room and
sat down on a stool at the elder woman's feet. She took the wrinkled
little old hand and patted it; then they sat still and silent, hand in
hand, waiting for the maids' return.

What was there for these women to make such a fuss about? Cannot a
girl be allowed to sit out perhaps a dance, or a whole cotillon even,
without the world coming to an end?

What made them all three fret, and fuss, and fear?

The great love they had one for the other, perhaps, for love has been
kno