But the Duke was no doubt more than the house, the father-in-law more than the tables.  Isabel, in the ordinary way of society, he had known almost with intimacy.  She, the while, had been well aware that if all things could possibly be made to run smoothly with her, this lordly host, who was so pleasantly courteous to her, would become her father-in-law.  But she had known also that, in his courtesy, had been altogether unaware of any such intention on her part, and that she would now present herself to him in an aspect very different from that in which she had hitherto been regarded.  She was well aware that the Duke had not wished to take her into the family,—­would not himself have chosen her for his son’s wife.  She had seen enough to make her sure that he had even chosen another bride for his heir.  She had been too clever not to perceive that Lady Mabel Grex had been not only selected,—­but almost accepted as though the thing had been certain.  She had learned nearly the whole truth from Silverbridge, who was not good at keeping a secret from one to whom his heart was open.  That story had been read by her with exactness.  ’I cannot lose you now,’ she had said to him, leaning on his arm;—­’I cannot afford to lose you now.  But I fear that someone else is losing you.’  To this he answered nothing, but simply pressed her closer to his side.  ‘Someone else,’ she continued, ’who perhaps may have reason to think that you have injured her.’  ‘No,’ he said boldly; ’no; there is no such person.’  For he had never ceased to assure himself that in all that matter with Mabel Grex he had been guilty of no treachery.  There had been a moment, indeed, in which she might have taken him; but she had chosen to let it pass from her.  All of which, or nearly all of which,—­Isabel now saw, and had seen also that the Duke had been a consenting party to that other arrangement.  She had reason therefore to doubt the manner of her acceptance.

But she had been accepted.  She had made such acceptance by him a stipulation in her acceptance of her son.  She was sure of the ground on which she trod and was determined to carry herself, if not with pride, yet with dignity.  There might be difficulties before her, but it should not be her fault if she were not as good as a Countess, and,—­when time would have it so,—­as good a Duchess as another.

The visit was not quite in the fashion in which Silverbridge himself had wished.  His idea had been to call for Isabel in his cab and take her down to Carlton Terrace.  ’Mother must go with me,’ she had said.  Then he looked blank,—­as he could look when he was disappointed, as he had looked when she would not talk to him at the lunch, when she told him that it was not her business to entertain him.  ‘Don’t be selfish,’ she added, laughing.  ’Do you think that mother will not want to have seen the house that I am to live in?’

‘She shall come afterwards as often as she likes.’

’What,—­paying me morning visits from New York!  She must come now, if you please.  Love me, love my mother.’