was of the simplest, most inartificial order.

"Are the Duke and Duchess here?" he asked the butler.

"Her Grace and Lady Mabel is here, sir; not the Dook."

"I suppose I must dress before I face the quality," muttered Rorie
sulkily, and he went leaping upstairs--three steps at a time--to
exchange his brown shooting-clothes and leather gaiters for that
dress-suit of his which was continually getting too small for him.
Rorie detested himself in a dress-suit and a white tie.

"You beast," he cried, addressing his reflection in the tall glass door
of his armoire, "you are the image of a waiter at The Clarendon."

The Briarwood drawing-room looked a great deal too vast and too lofty
for the three women who were occupying it this evening. It was a
finely-proportioned room, and its amber satin hangings made a pleasing
background for the white and gold furniture. White, gold, and amber
made up the prevailing tone of colour. Clusters of wax lights against
the walls and a crystal chandelier with many candles, filled the room
with a soft radiance. It was a room without shadow. There were no
recesses, no deep-set windows or doors. All was coldly bright,
faultlessly elegant. Rorie detested his mother's drawing-room almost as
much as he detested himself in a dress-coat that was too short in the
sleeves.

The matrons were seated on each side of the shining gold and steel
fireplace, before which there stretched an island of silky white fur.
Lady Jane Vawdrey's younger sister was a stout, comfortable-looking
woman in gray silk, who hardly realised one's preconceived notion of a
duchess. Lady Jane herself had dignity enough for the highest rank in
the "Almanach de Gotha." She wore dark green velvet and old rose-point,
and looked like a portrait of an Austrian princess by Velasquez. Years
had not impaired the purity of her blonde complexion. Her aquiline
nose, thin lips, small firm chin, were the features of one born to
rule. Her light brown hair showed no streak of gray. An admirable
woman, no doubt, for anybody else's mother, as Rorie so often said to
himself.

The young lady was still sitting at the piano, remote from the two
elders, her slim white fingers running in and out and to and fro in
those wondrous intricacies and involutions which distinguish modern
classical music. Rorie hated all that running about the piano to no
purpose, and could not perceive his cousin's merit in having devoted
three or four hours of her daily