ved
one another. We told each other ... it seemed to Francis then that the
only thing was for us to go away together. But I refused. Odd though it
may seem, Roddy, I cared for you then more than I'd ever cared for you
before, and I think it's gone on since then, getting stronger always. I
wouldn't go and I wouldn't see Francis again and we weren't to write
again--unless I found that our living together, Roddy--you and I--was
hopeless. Then I said I'd go to him."

Her voice sank and faltered--"There did come a day when I thought
that--we couldn't get on any longer. You know what finally ... Lizzie
Rand found out. She knew that I intended to go away with Francis. She
fought to prevent it--she was splendid about it, splendid! We
quarrelled, and in the middle of it, came your accident.... I wrote
afterwards to Francis and told him that it was all over--absolutely--for
ever. Since then--only once...." She broke off, recovered: "Since then
there's been nothing--no letter, no meeting--nothing. My whole life now
is wrapped up in you, Roddy, and Francis knows that. I've told you the
whole truth!" She turned from him, fiercely, round to her grandmother.
"I don't know what _you_ told Roddy, what you made him believe--you've
wanted, always, to harm me with Roddy if you could. At least, now, you
can't tell him more than I've done."

The Duchess stared first at Rachel, then at Roddy. She had behaved from
the beginning as though Breton did not exist.

Some of her amiability had left her. Her lips were tightly drawn
together as she listened and her rings tapped one against the other.

"This is all rather tiresome," she said sharply. "Very like you, Rachel,
to do these things in public. You get that from your mother. But you're
strangely lacking in humour. It all comes from my own very unfortunate
remark the other day. Not like you, Roddy dear, to arrange this kind of
thing. Stupid ... distinctly--I'm sure now, however, that you're
satisfied. Rachel's certainly been very frank--and now perhaps we might
leave it."

It was then that Francis Breton came forward into the middle of the
room, his face grey with anger, something suddenly unrestrained and
savage in his eyes so that the room was filled with a wind of angry
agitation.

He stood in front of his grandmother, but turned his head, sharply, now
and again, round to Roddy. So agitated was he that his words came in
little gasps, flung out, in little bundles together, and strangely