When Lady Glencora left Madame Goesler she went at once to the Duke’s house.  It was her custom to see her husband’s uncle on a Sunday, and she would most frequently find him just at this hour,—­before he went up-stairs to dress for dinner.  She usually took her boy with her, but on this occasion she went alone.  She had tried what she could do with Madame Goesler, and she found that she had failed.  She must now make her attempt upon the Duke.  But the Duke, perhaps anticipating some attack of the kind, had fled.  “Where is his Grace, Barker?” said Lady Glencora to the porter.  “We do not know, your ladyship.  His Grace went away yesterday evening with nobody but Lapoule.”  Lapoule was the Duke’s French valet.  Lady Glencora could only return home and consider in her own mind what batteries might yet be brought to bear upon the Duke, towards stopping the marriage, even after the engagement should have been made,—­if it were to be made.  Lady Glencora felt that such batteries might still be brought up as would not improbably have an effect on a proud, weak old man.  If all other resources failed, royalty in some of its branches might be induced to make a request, and every august relation in the peerage should interfere.  The Duke no doubt might persevere and marry whom he pleased,—­if he were strong enough.  But it requires much personal strength,—­that standing alone against the well-armed batteries of all one’s friends.  Lady Glencora had once tried such a battle on her own behalf, and had failed.  She had wished to be imprudent when she was young; but her friends had been too strong for her.  She had been reduced, and kept in order, and made to run in a groove,—­and was now, when she sat looking at her little boy with his bold face, almost inclined to think that the world was right, and that grooves were best.  But if she had been controlled when she was young, so ought the Duke to be controlled now that he was old.  It is all very well for a man or woman to boast that he,—­or she,—­may do what he likes with his own,—­or with her own.  But there are circumstances in which such self-action is ruinous to so many that coercion from the outside becomes absolutely needed.  Nobody had felt the injustice of such coercion when applied to herself more sharply than had Lady Glencora.  But she had lived to acknowledge that such coercion might be proper, and was now prepared to use it in any shape in which it might be made available.  It was all very well for Madame Goesler to laugh and exclaim, “Psha!” when Lady Glencora declared her real trouble.  But should it ever come to pass that a black-browed baby with a yellow skin should be shown to the world as Lord Silverbridge, Lady Glencora knew that her peace of mind would be gone for ever.  She had begun the world desiring one thing, and had missed it.  She had suffered much, and had then reconciled herself to other hopes.  If those other hopes were also to be cut away from her, the world would not be worth a pinch of snuff to her.  The