The benevolent butler conducted her up one pair of stairs. Her heart was thumping hard, and she felt unusually breathless, both of which disagreeable symptoms would have been much aggravated had she known how many interested persons were watching from hidden points of vantage every step of her progress. No one could have told whence had sprung the news that his grace had chosen a leg-shackle at last, and was finding his path proverbially rough, but everyone knew it, from the agent-in-chief down to the humblest kitchen porter; and an amazing number of these persons contrived to be spectators of Miss Marlow’s arrival. Most of them were disappointed in her; but Miss Penistone and Button found nothing amiss, one of these ladies being sentimentally disposed to think any damsel of dear Sylvester’s choice a paragon, and the other regarding her in the light of a Being sent from on high to preserve her darling from death by shipwreck, surfeit, neglect, or any other of the disasters which might have been expected to strike down an infant of tender years taken to outlandish parts without his nurse.

Phoebe heard her name announced, and stepped across the threshold of the Duchess’s drawing room. The door closed behind her, but instead of walking forward she stood rooted to the ground, staring across the room at her hostess. A look of naïve surprise was in her face, and she so far forgot herself as to utter an involuntary: ‘Oh-!’

No one had ever told her how pronounced was the resemblance between Sylvester and his mother. At first glance it was startling. At the second one perceived that the Duchess had warmer eyes than Sylvester, and a kinder curve to her lips.

Before Phoebe had assimilated these subtle differences an amused laugh escaped the Duchess, and she said: ‘Yes, Sylvester has his eyebrows from me, poor boy!’

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, ma’am!’ Phoebe stammered, much confused.

‘Come and let me look at you!’ invited the Duchess. ‘I daresay your grandmother may have told you that I have a stupid complaint that won’t let me get out of my chair.’

Phoebe stayed where she was, clasping both hands tightly on her reticule. ‘Ma’am-I am very much obliged to your grace for having-honoured me with this invitation-but I must not accept your hospitality without telling you-that it was I who wrote-that dreadful book!’

‘Oh, you do look like your mother!’ exclaimed the Duchess. ‘Yes, I know you wrote it, which is why I was so desirous of making your acquaintance. Come and give me a kiss! I kissed you in your cradle, but you can’t remember that!’

Thus adjured, Phoebe approached her chair, and bent to plant a shy kiss on the Duchess’s cheek. But the Duchess not only returned this chaste salute warmly but said: ‘You poor, foolish child! Now tell me all about it!’

To hear herself addressed so caressingly was a novel experience. Miss Battery was gruff, Mrs. Orde matter-of-fact, and Lady Ingham astringent, and these were the three ladies who had Phoebe’s interests most to heart. She had never met with tenderness, and its effect was to make her tumble down on her knees beside the Duchess’s chair, and burst into tears. Such conduct would have earned her a sharp reproof from Lady Ingham, but the Duchess seemed to think well of it, since she recommended her unconventional guest to enjoy a comfortable cry, removed her hat, and patted her soothingly.

From the moment of discovering that Sylvester had lost his heart to Phoebe the Duchess had been determined to like her, and to put out of her mind all thought of the book she had written; but she had expected to find it hard to do either of these things. It was one thing to nourish private doubts about her son, quite another to find him depicted as a villainous character in a novel that had taken the ton by storm. But no sooner did she see Phoebe and read the contrition in her frank eyes than her heart melted.

It rejoiced too, for although Sylvester had said that Phoebe was not beautiful she had not expected to find her a thin slip of a girl, with a brown complexion and nothing to recommend her but a pair of speaking grey eyes. If Sylvester, who knew his own worth, and had coolly made out a list of the qualities he considered indispensable in his bride, had decided that only this girl would satisfy him, he had fallen more deeply in love than his mother had thought possible. She could have laughed aloud, remembering all he had once said to her, for there seemed to her to be no points of resemblance between Phoebe and that mythical wife he had described. She thought there would be some lively fights if he married Phoebe, certainly none of that calm, rather bloodless propriety which he had once considered to be the foundation of a successful alliance.

Well, the marriage might prove a failure, but the Duchess, who had conceived a profound dislike of five unknown but eligible ladies of quality, was much inclined to think that it might as easily turn out to be the making of both parties to it; and by the time the whole history of The Lost Heir had been sobbed into her lap, and a passionate apology offered to her, she was able to assure the penitent author, with perfect sincerity, that on the whole she was glad the book had been published, since she thought it had done Sylvester a great deal of good. ‘And as for Count Ugolino’s shocking conduct towards his nephew, that, my dear, is the least objectionable part of it,’ she said. ‘For as soon as you embroiled him in his dastardly plots, you know, all resemblance to Sylvester vanished. And Maximilian, I am afraid, is quite unlike my naughty grandson! From all Mr. Orde told me I feel that Edmund would have very speedily put Ugolino in his place!’

Phoebe could not help giving a tiny chuckle, but she said: ‘I promise you it was a coincidence, ma’am, but he-the Duke-did not think so.’

‘Oh, he knew it was, whatever he may have said! Nor did he care a button for it. Ianthe has been spreading far worse stories about him (because more credible) for years, and he has treated them with perfect indifference. What he cared for was the sketch you drew of him when you first brought Ugolino on to your stage. It is not too much to say that that almost stunned him. Oh, don’t hang your head! It was a salutary lesson to him, I believe. You see, my dear, I have lately been a little worried about Sylvester, suspecting that he had become-to use your word for him-arrogant. Perhaps you will feel that I should have noticed it long ago, but he never shows that side of himself to me, and I don’t now go into company, so that I’ve had no opportunity to see what he is to others. I am really grateful to you for telling me what no one else has liked to mention!’

‘Oh, no, no!’ Phoebe said quickly. ‘It was a caricature, ma’am! His manners are always those of a well-bred man, and there is no appearance in him of self-consequence. It was very wrong of me: he had given me no real cause! It was only-’

‘Go on!’ the Duchess said encouragingly. ‘Don’t be afraid to tell me! I might imagine worse than the truth, you know, if you are not open with me.’

‘It-it seemed to me, ma’am, that he was polite not to honour others but himself!’ Phoebe blurted out. ‘And that the flattery he receives he-he doesn’t notice because he takes it for granted-his consequence being so large. I don’t know why it should have vexed me so. If he had seemed to hold others cheap I should only have been diverted, and that would have been a much worse fault in him. I think-it is his indifference that makes me so often want to hit him!’

The Duchess laughed. ‘Ah, yes, I understand that! Tell me: he’s not above being pleased?’

‘No, ma’am, never!’ Phoebe assured her. ‘He is always affable in company: not a bit stiff! Only-I don’t know how to express it-aloof, I think. Oh, I didn’t mean to distress you! Pray, pray, forgive me!’

The Duchess’s smile went a little awry. ‘You haven’t distressed me. It distressed me only to know that Sylvester was still living in some desolate Polar region-but it was only for a moment! I don’t think he is living there any longer.’

‘His brother, ma’am?’ Phoebe ventured to ask, looking shyly up into her face.

The Duchess nodded. ‘His twin brother. They were not alike, but the bond between them was so strong that nothing ever loosened it, not even Harry’s marriage. When Harry died-Sylvester went away. I don’t mean bodily-ah, you understand, don’t you? I might have been sure you would, for I know you to have a very discerning eye. Sylvester has a deep reserve. He will not have his wounds touched, and that wound-’ She broke off, and then said, after a little pause: ‘Well, he kept everyone at a distance for so long that I believe it became, as it were, an engrained habit, and is why he gave you the feeling that he was aloof-which exactly describes him, I must tell you!’

She smiled at Phoebe, and took her hand. ‘As for his indifferent air, my dear, I know it well-I have been acquainted with it for many years, and not only in Sylvester! It springs, as you so correctly suppose, from pride. That is an inherited vice! All the Raynes have it, and Sylvester to a marked degree. It is inborn, and it wasn’t diminished by his succeeding, when he was much too young, to his father’s dignities. I always did think that the worst thing that could have befallen him, but comforted myself with the thought that Lord William Rayne-he is Sylvester’s uncle, and was guardian to both my sons for the two years that were left of their minority-that William would quickly depress any top-loftiness in Sylvester. But unfortunately William, though the kindest man alive, not only holds himself very much up, but is also convinced that the Head of the House of Rayne is a far more august personage than the Head of the House of Hanover! I have the greatest affection for him, but he is what I expect you would call gothic! He tells me, for instance, that society has become a mingle-mangle, and that too many men of birth nowadays don’t keep a proper distance. He would have given Sylvester a thundering scold for showing incivility to the humblest of his dependants, but I am very sure that he taught him that meticulous politeness was what he owed to his own consequence: noblesse oblige, in fact. So, what with William telling him never to forget how exalted he was, and far too many people looking up to him as their liege lord, I am afraid Sylvester became imbued with some very improper notions, my dear! And, to be candid with you, I don’t think he will ever lose them. His wife, if he loved her, could do much to improve him, but she won’t alter his whole character.’