nd of her--nothing could make me--there are too many
things...."

Space and silence saluted Rachel. Two great mirrors ran from floor to
ceiling, high windows flooded the room with light and everything seemed
to be intended only for such a situation as this--the very house, the
grounds, the colour of the day had arranged themselves, in their purity
and air and silence, about the central figure. The Duchess lay in a long
low chair before the window; she was wrapped in white shawls and thick
rugs covered her body; Dorchester, the same stern, unbending Dorchester,
said gravely to Rachel, "Good afternoon, my lady. I hope that you are
well," then moved into another room.

The Duchess had not stirred at the sound of the closing doors, nor at
Dorchester's voice, nor at Rachel's approach. She was gazing out, beyond
the windows, to the expanse of sunlit country, fields that sloped
towards the river, an orchard, white with blossom, running down the
hill, its colour, dazzling, almost visibly trembling against the sky.

Rachel had only seen her in the Portland Place rooms, with the china
dragons, the gold ornaments, the red lacquer bed, the blazing
wall-paper. It had seemed then that she must have those things around
her, that she needed the colour and extravagance to support her flaming
passion for life, so curbed and shackled by disease.

Their absence made her older, feebler, more human, but also grander and
more impressive. Rachel had always feared her, but despised herself for
her fear; now she was in the presence of something that made her proud
to be afraid.

She thought that she might be asleep, so she moved, very quietly, a
chair forward near the window and, sitting down, waited. The only sound
in all the world was the steady splash--splash--splash of the fountain
below, the only movement the stealthy creeping of the long shadows,
flung by white boulder clouds, across the shining fields.

Suddenly, without turning her head, the Duchess spoke.

"Very good of you, Rachel. I hoped that you would come."

Her voice was weak, her words indistinct as though she were speaking
through muffled shawls, but, nevertheless, behind them the presence of
the old dominating will was to be discerned, but now it was a will
quiescent, struggling no longer for power.

"I would have come before if you had sent for me. I'm so glad that you
did."

"I can't talk for very long, my dear, and I don't suppose that you want
to spend hours in