Chaplin tried to prevent me. I--I told him to mind
his own business. I meant to go. I--I saw all the horses, and they were
splendid," he added, enthusiasm gaining over fear. "I saw the stables,
and the weighing-room, and everything. I never enjoyed myself so much
before. I told Chaplin I would tell you, because he ought not to be
blamed, you know. I did mean to tell you directly I came in. But all
those people were here."--Richard's face darkened. "And you remember
what happened? That put everything else out of my head."

A pause. Then he said: "Are you very angry?"

Katherine made no reply. She moved away round the foot of the bed and
stood at the sunny window in silence. Bitterness of hot humiliation
possessed her. Heretofore, whatever her trial, she had been mistress of
the situation; she had reigned a queen-mother, her authority
undisputed. And now it appeared her kingdom was in revolt, conspiracy
was rife. Richard's will and hers were in conflict; and Richard's will
must eventually obtain, since he would eventually be master. Already
courtiers bowed to that will. All this was in her mind. And a wounding
of feeling, far deeper and more intimate than this,--since Katherine's
nobility of character was great and the worldly aspect, the greed of
personal power and undisputed rule, could not affect her for long. It
wounded her, as a slight upon the memory of the man she had so wholly
loved, that this first conflict between Richard and herself should turn
on the question of horses and the racing-stable. The irony of the
position appeared unpardonable. And then, the vision of poor
Richard--her darling, whom she had striven so jealously to shield ever
since the day, over thirteen years ago, when undressing her baby she
had first looked upon its malformed limbs--Richard riding forth for all
the staring, mocking world to see, again arose before her.

Thinking of all this, Katherine gazed out over the stately home
scene--grass plot and gardens, woodland and distant landscape, rich in
the golden splendour of steady sunshine--with smarting eyes and a sense
of impotent misery that wrapped her about as a burning garment. The boy
was beginning to go his own way. And his way was not hers. And those
she had trusted were disloyal, helping him to go it. Alone, in
retirement, she had borne her great trouble with tremendous courage.
But how should she bear it under changed conditions, amid publicity,
gossip, comment?

Dickie, meanwh