Other spectators paid more frivolous visits to the scene.  Bobbie Forbes and Alicia Drake, attracted by the sounds of war, looked in from the next room.  Forbes listened a moment, shrugged his shoulders, made a whistling mouth, and then walked off to a glass bookcase—­the one sign of civilization in the vast room—­where he was soon absorbed in early editions of English poets, Lady Lucy’s inheritance from a literary father.  Alicia moved about, a little restless and scornful, now listening unwillingly, and now attempting diversions.  But in these she found no one to second her, not even the two pink-and-white nieces of Lady Lucy, who did not understand a word of what was going on, but were none the less gazing open-mouthed at Diana.

Marion Vincent meanwhile had drawn nearer to Diana.  Her strong significant face wore a quiet smile; there was a friendly, even an admiring penetration in the look with which she watched the young prophetess of Empire and of War.  As for Lady Lucy, she was silent, and rather grave.  In her secret mind she thought that young girls should not be vehement or presumptuous.  It was a misfortune that this pretty creature had not been more reasonably brought up; a mother’s hand had been wanting.  While not only Mr. Ferrier and Mrs. Colwood, sitting side by side in the background, but everybody else present, in some measure or degree, was aware of some play of feeling in the scene, beyond and behind the obvious, some hidden forces, or rather, perhaps, some emerging relation, which gave it significance and thrill.  The duel was a duel of brains—­unequal at that; what made it fascinating was the universal or typical element in the clash of the two personalities—­the man using his whole strength, more and more tyrannously, more and more stubbornly—­the girl resisting, flashing, appealing, fighting for dear life, now gaining, now retreating—­and finally overborne.

For Marsham’s staying powers, naturally, were the greater.  He summoned finally all his nerve and all his knowledge.  The air of the carpet-knight with which he had opened battle disappeared; he fought seriously and for victory.  And suddenly Diana laughed—­a little hysterically—­and gave in.  He had carried her into regions of history and politics where she could not follow.  She dropped her head in her hands a moment—­then fell back in her chair—­silenced—­her beautiful passionate eyes fixed on Marsham, as his were on her.

“Brava!  Brava!” cried Mr. Ferrier, clapping his hands.  The room joined in laughter and applause.

* * * * *

A few minutes later the ladies streamed out into the hall on their way to bed.  Marsham came to light a candle for Diana.

“Do you forgive me?” he said, as he gave it to her.

The tone was gay and apologetic.

She laughed unsteadily, without reply.

“When will you take your revenge?”

She shook her head, touched his hand for “good-night,” and went up-stairs.