And the old man gleefully rubbed his hands, face and form full of the vivacity of his imperishable youth.

“Choose your time and place,” said Sir Wilfrid, hastily.  “There are very sad and tragic circumstances—­”

Lord Lackington looked at him and nodded gayly, as much as to say, “You distrust me with the sex?  Me, who have had the whip-hand of them since my cradle!”

Suddenly the Duchess interrupted.  “Sir Wilfrid, you have seen Lady Henry; which did she mind most—­the coming-in or the coffee?”

Bury returned, smiling, to the tea-table.

“The coming-in would have been nothing if it had led quickly to the going-out.  It was the coffee that ruined you.”

“I see,” said the Duchess, pouting—­“it meant that it was possible for us to enjoy ourselves without Lady Henry.  That was the offence.”

“Precisely.  It showed that you were enjoying yourselves.  Otherwise there would have been no lingering, and no coffee.”

“I never knew coffee so fatal before,” sighed the Duchess.  “And now”—­it was evident that she shrank from the answer to her own question—­“she is really irreconcilable?”

“Absolutely.  Let me beg you to take it for granted.”

“She won’t see any of us—­not me?”

Sir Wilfrid hesitated.

“Make the Duke your ambassador.”

The Duchess laughed, and flushed a little.

“And Mr. Montresor?”

“Ah,” said Sir Wilfrid in another tone, “that’s not to be lightly spoken of.”

“You don’t mean—­”

“How many years has that lasted?” said Sir Wilfrid, meditatively.

“Thirty, I think—­if not more.  It was Lady Henry who told him of his son’s death, when his wife daren’t do it.”

There was a silence.  Montresor had lost his only son, a subaltern in the
Lancers, in the action of Alumbagh, on the way to the relief of Lucknow.

Then the Duchess broke out: 

“I know that you think in your heart of hearts that Julie has been in fault, and that we have all behaved abominably!”

“My dear lady,” said Sir Wilfrid, after a moment, “in Persia we believe in fate; I have brought the trick home.”

“Yes, yes, that’s it!” exclaimed Lord Lackington—­it!  When Lady Henry wanted a companion—­and fate brought her Miss Le Breton—­”

“Last night’s coffee was already drunk,” put in Sir Wilfrid.

Meredith’s voice, raised and a trifle harsh, made itself heard.

“Why you should dignify an ugly jealousy by fine words I don’t know.  For some women—­women like our old friend—­gratitude is hard.  That is the moral of this tale.”

“The only one?” said Sir Wilfrid, not without a mocking twist of the lip.

“The only one that matters.  Lady Henry had found, or might have found, a daughter—­”

“I understand she bargained for a companion.”

“Very well.  Then she stands upon her foolish rights, and loses both daughter and companion.  At seventy, life doesn’t forgive you a blunder of that kind.”