“My darling, darling boy!” she exclaimed, as he opened the door and peeped in.  “Streatfield, bring that chair for his lordship, and—­oh, you can go for a few minutes.”

Then she folded him in her arms, and almost sobbed with joy to see him again.

“Well, mother,” he said, when she had kissed him and murmured over him as much as she wished.  “Here I am, and what a sickening climate!  And where are you off to?”

“I am going to dine with Morella Winmarleigh,” said Lady Bracondale, “early, to go to the opera, and then I shall take her on to the Brantingham’s ball.  Won’t you join us at either place, Hector?  I feel it so dreadfully, having to rush off like this, your first evening, darling.”

She stood back and looked at him.  She must see for herself whether he was well, and if this riotous life she feared he had been leading lately had not too greatly told upon him.  Her fond eyes detected an air of weariness:  he looked haggard, and not so full of spirits as he usually was.  Alas! if he would only stay in England!

“I am rather tired, mother; I may look in at the opera, but I can’t face a ball.  How is Anne, and what is she doing to-night?” he said.

“Anne has a bad cold.  We have had such weather—­nothing but rain since Sunday night!  She is dining at home and going to bed early.  I have just had a telephone message from her; she is longing to see you, too.”

“I think I shall go round and dine with her then,” said Hector, “and join you later.”

They talked on for about ten minutes before he left her to dress, running against Streatfield in the passage.  She had known him since his birth, and beamed with joy at his return.

He chaffed her about growing fat, and went on his way to telephone to his sister.

“His lordship looks pale, my lady,” said the demure woman, as she fastened Lady Bracondale’s bracelet.  She, too, disapproved of Paris and bachelorhood, but she did not love Morella Winmarleigh.

“Oh, you think so, Streatfield?” Lady Bracondale exclaimed, in a worried voice.  “Now that we have got him back we must take great care of him.  His lordship will join me at the opera.  Are you sure he likes those aigrettes in my hair?”

“Why, it’s one of his lordship’s favorite styles, my lady.  You need have no fears,” said the maid.

And thus comforted, Lady Bracondale descended the great staircase to her carriage.

She was still a beautiful woman, though well past fifty.  Her splendid, dark hair had hardly a thread of gray in it, and grew luxuriantly, but she insisted upon wearing it simply parted in the middle and coiled in a mass of plaits behind, while one braid stood up coronet fashion well at the back of her head.  She was addicted to rich satins and velvets, and had a general air of Victorian repose and decorum.  There was no attempt to retain departed youth; no golden wigs or red and white paint disfigured her person, which had an immense natural dignity and stateliness.  It made her shiver to see some of her contemporaries dressed and arranged to represent not more than twenty years of age.  But so many modern ways of thought and life jarred upon her!