The conclusion of dinner was marked by an absence of all ceremony. The cigarettes had already been pa.s.sed round before the Archd.u.c.h.ess rose, but those who chose to remain at the table did so. Isobel leaned over and whispered in my ear.

"Come with me into the drawing-room. I want to talk to you."

I obeyed, and the Archd.u.c.h.ess seemed to me purposely to leave us alone.

We sat in a quiet corner, and when I saw that there were tears in Isobel's eyes, I knew that my time of trial was not yet over.

"Arnold," she said quietly, "you care--whether I am happy or not? You have done so much for me--you must care!"

"You cannot doubt it, Isobel," I answered.

"I do not. This sort of life will not suit me at all. I do not trust my aunt. I am weary of strangers. Let us give it all up. Take me back to London with you. I feel as though I were going into prison."

"Dear Isobel," I said, "you must remember why we decided that it was right for you to rejoin your people."

"Oh, I know," she answered. "But even to the last Monsieur Feurgeres hesitated. My mother would never have wished me to be miserable."

I shook my head.

"I believe that Feurgeres was right," I answered. "I believe that your mother would wish to see you in your rightful place. I believe that it is your duty to claim it."

Then I think that for the first time Isobel was unfair to me, and spoke words which hurt.

"You do not wish to have me back again," she said slowly. "I have been a trouble to you, I know, and I have upset your life. You want me to go away."

I did not answer her. I could not. She leaned forward and looked into my face, and instantly her tone changed. Her soft fingers clutched mine for a moment.

"Dear Arnold," she whispered, "I am sorry! Forgive me! I will do what you think best. I did not mean to hurt you."

"I am quite sure that you did not, Isobel," I answered. "Listen! I am speaking now for Allan as well as for myself, and for Arthur too. To tear you out of our lives is the hardest thing we have ever had to do.

Your coming changed everything for us. We were never so happy before. We shall never know anything like it again. If you were what we thought, a nameless and friendless child, you would be welcome back again, more welcome than I can tell you. But you have your own life to live, and it is not ours. You have your own place to fill in the world, and, forgive me, your mother's memory to vindicate. Monsieur Feurgeres was right. For her sake you must claim the things that are yours."

"But shall I never see you again, Arnold?" she asked, with a little catch in her breath.

I set my teeth. I could see that the Archd.u.c.h.ess was watching us.

"Our ways must lie far apart, Isobel," I said. "But who can say? Many things may happen. The Princess Isobel may visit the studios when she is in London or at Homburg. She may patronize the poor writer whose books she knows."

Isobel sat and listened to me with stony face.

"I wonder," she murmured, "why the way to one's duty lies always through h.e.l.l?"

Isobel's lips were quivering, and I dared make no effort to console her.

The Archd.u.c.h.ess came suddenly across the room to us, and bent affectionately over Isobel.

"My dear child," she said, "you are overtired. Go and talk to Adelaide.

She is alone in the music-room. I have something to say to Mr.

Greatson."

Isobel rose and left us at once. The Archd.u.c.h.ess took her place. She was carrying a fan of black ostrich feathers, and she waved it languidly for some time as though in deep thought.

"Mr. Greatson," she said at length.

I turned and found her eyes fixed curiously upon me. These were moments which I remembered all my life, and every little detail in connection with them seemed flashed into my memory. The strange perfume, something like the burning of wood spice, wafted towards me by her fan, the glitter of the blue black sequins which covered her magnificent gown, the faint smile upon her parted lips, and the meaning in her eyes--all these things made their instantaneous and ineffaceable impression. Then she leaned a little closer to me.

"Mr. Greatson," she repeated, "I know your secret!"

CHAPTER IX

I am afraid that for the moment I lost my self-possession. I had gone through so much during the last few hours, and this woman spoke with such confidence--so quietly, and yet with such absolute conviction--that I felt the barriers which I had built about myself crumbling away. I answered her lamely, and without conviction.

"My secret! I do not know what you mean. I have no secret!"

The black feathers fluttered backwards and forwards once more. She regarded me still with the same quiet smile.

"You love my niece, Mr. Greatson," she said.

"Madame," I answered, "you are jesting!"

"Indeed I am not," she declared. "I have made a statement which is perfectly true."

"I deny it!" I exclaimed hoa.r.s.ely.

"You can deny it as much as you like, if you think it worth while to perjure yourself," she replied coolly. "The truth remains. I have had a good deal of experience in such matters. You love Isobel, and I am not at all sure that Isobel does not love you."

"Madame," I protested, "such statements are absurd. I am no longer a young man. I am thirty-four years old. I have no longer any thought of marriage. Isobel is no more than a child. I was nearly her present age when she was born. The whole idea, as I trust you will see, is ridiculous."

The Archd.u.c.h.ess regarded me still with unchanged face.

"Your protestations, Mr. Greatson," she said, "amuse, but utterly fail to convince me."

"Let us drop the subject, then," I said hastily. "At least, if you persist in your hallucination, I hope you will believe this. I have never spoken a word of what could be called love-making to the child in my life."

"I believe you implicitly," she answered promptly. "I believe that I know and can appreciate your position. Let me tell you that I honour you for it."

"Madame," I murmured, "you are very good. Let us now abandon the subject."

"By no means," she answered. "On the contrary, I should like to discuss it with you fully."

"Madame!" I exclaimed.

"Let us suppose for a moment," she went on calmly, "that I am correct, that you really love Isobel, but that your peculiar position has imposed upon your sense of honour the necessity for silence. Well, your guardianship of her may now be considered to have ended. From to-night it has pa.s.sed into my hands. Still, you would say the difference between your positions is immeasurable. You are, I doubt not, a gentleman by birth, but Isobel comes from one of the ancient and n.o.ble families of the world, and might almost expect to share a throne with the man whom she elects to marry. It is true, in effect, Mr. Greatson, that you are of different worlds."

"Madame," I answered, "why do you trouble to demonstrate such obvious facts? They are incontestable. But supposing for a moment that your surmises concerning myself were true, you will understand that they are painful for me to listen to."

"You must have patience, Mr. Greatson," she said quietly. "At present I am feeling my way through my thoughts. There is rash blood in Isobel's veins, and I should like her life to be happier than her mother's. She is unconventional and a lover of freedom. The etiquette of our Court at Illghera will chafe her continually. I wonder, Mr. Greatson, if she would not be happier--married to some one of humbler birth, perhaps, but who can give her the sort of life she desires."