“You are a wicked little monkey,” said his grand-uncle, kissing him.  At this moment Lady Glencora was, no doubt, thinking how necessary it was that she should be careful to see that things did turn out in the manner proposed,—­so that people who had waited should not be disappointed; and the Duke was perhaps thinking that he was not absolutely bound to his nephew by any law of God or man; and Madame Max Goesler,—­I wonder whether her thoughts were injurious to the prospects of that handsome bold-faced little boy.

Lady Glencora rose to take her leave first.  It was not for her to show any anxiety to force the Duke out of the lady’s presence.  If the Duke were resolved to make a fool of himself, nothing that she could do would prevent it.  But she thought that this little inspection might possibly be of service, and that her uncle’s ardour would be cooled by the interruption to which he had been subjected.  So she went, and immediately afterwards the Duke followed her.  The interruption had, at any rate, saved him on that occasion from making the highest bid for the pleasure of Madame Goesler’s company at Como.  The Duke went down with the little boy in his hand, so that there was not an opportunity for a single word of interest between the gentleman and the lady.

Madame Goesler, when she was alone, seated herself on her sofa, tucking her feet up under her as though she were seated somewhere in the East, pushed her ringlets back roughly from her face, and then placed her two hands to her sides so that her thumbs rested lightly on her girdle.  When alone with something weighty on her mind she would sit in this form for the hour together, resolving, or trying to resolve, what should be her conduct.  She did few things without much thinking, and though she walked very boldly, she walked warily.  She often told herself that such success as she had achieved could not have been achieved without much caution.  And yet she was ever discontented with herself, telling herself that all that she had done was nothing, or worse than nothing.  What was it all, to have a duke and to have lords dining with her, to dine with lords or with a duke itself, if life were dull with her, and the hours hung heavy!  Life with her was dull, and the hours did hang heavy.  And what if she caught this old man, and became herself a duchess,—­caught him by means of his weakness, to the inexpressible dismay of all those who were bound to him by ties of blood,—­would that make her life happier, or her hours less tedious?  That prospect of a life on the Italian lakes with an old man tied to her side was not so charming in her eyes as it was in those of the Duke.  Were she to succeed, and to be blazoned forth to the world as Duchess of Omnium, what would she have gained?