r
the Crawfords know her and, in fact, I can't find anyone who does."

Had a stranger penetrated into the fastnesses of the Chichesters or the
Medleys he would have been overwhelmed with courtesy and politeness and,
unless he had full credentials, would have been utterly excluded at the
end of it. Had he boldly invaded the Denisons he would, unless he could
prove his contribution to the entertainment of the day, have been told
frankly that he was not wanted.

Had he passed the doors of No. 104 and had no proof of his Beaminster
faith upon him, Norris would have exchanged with him a quiet word or two
and he would have found himself in the bright spaces of Portland Place.

Rachel and Roddy had come to the party. Rachel sat on a high chair and
looked stiff and pale; Lady Darrant, bunched up in an arm-chair, was
beside her. Lady Darrant's emotions were divided between the welfare of
the church in her parish in Wiltshire and the welfare of her only son, a
boy aged twenty who, supposed to be studying for the Diplomatic Service,
was really interested in race meetings and polo. Lady Darrant had, like
most of the Aristocrats, a tranquil mind. Sorrow, tragedies,
perplexities might come and go, the plain surface stability was in no
way disturbed. She would have liked to possess more money that she might
bestow it upon the church, and she would have preferred that her son
should place foreign languages above horses, but, since these things
were not so, God knew best and the world might have been much worse:
none of her friends were ever agitated, outwardly at any rate. Life was
calm, sure, proceeding from a definite commencement to a definite
conclusion and--God knew best. Rumours came to her of atheists and
chorus girls and American millionaires, but she was neither alarmed nor
dismayed.

At a Beaminster entertainment she felt that she was among strangers. Her
account of such an affair given afterwards to friends implied that this
world into which she had glanced was not her world. Lady Adela
frightened her and the mere suggestion of the Duchess, whom she had
never seen, threatened more fiercely her tranquillity than any other
event or person.

Now, every minute or so, she flung little agitated glances at the
portrait. At the back of her mind, this afternoon, was the reflection
that there was going to be a war and that quite certainly her boy, Tony,
would insist on helping his country.

She was proud that he should insist,