When the duchess thought of looking for Blair later in the afternoon he was not to be found. Galorey told her finally he had gone off in the motor with Letty Lane, bareheaded. The duchess was bidding good-by to the last guest; she motioned Galorey to wait and he did so, and they found themselves alone in the room where the flowers, still fresh, offered their silent company; the druggets strewn with leaves of smilax, the open piano with its scattered music, the dark rosewood that had served for a rest for Letty Lane’s white hand. Galorey and the duchess turned their backs on the music-room, and went into a small conservatory looking out over the park.

“He’s nothing but a cowboy,” the lady exclaimed. “He must be quite mad, going off bareheaded through London with an actress.”

“He’s spoiled,” Lord Galorey said peacefully.

She carried a bunch of orchids Dan had given her, and regarded them absently. “I’ve made him angry, and he’s taking this way of exhibiting his spleen.”

Galorey said cheerfully: “Oh, Dan’s got lots of spirit.”

Looking up from the contemplation of her flowers to her friend, the duchess murmured with a charming smile: “I don’t hit it off very well with Americans, Gordon.”

His color rising, Galorey returned: “I think you’ll have to let Dan go, Lily!”

For a second she thought so herself; and they both started when the voice of the young man himself was heard in the next room.

“Good-by, I’ll let you make your peace, Lily,” and Gordon passed Dan in the drawing-room in leaving, and thought the boy’s face was a study.

The duchess held out her hand to Dan as he came across the room.

“Come here,” she called agreeably. “Every one has gone, thank heaven! I’ve been waiting for you for an age. Let’s talk it all over.”

“Just what I’ve come back to do.”

There had been royalty at the musicale, and the hostess spoke of her guests and their approval, mentioning one by one the names of the great. It might have impressed the ear of a man more snob than was the Montana copper king’s son. “I did so want you to meet the Bishop of London,” she said. “But nobody could find you. You look most awfully well, Dan,” and with the orchids she held, she touched his hand.

He was so direct, so incapable of anything but the honest truth, that Dan didn’t know deceit when he saw it, and his lady spoke so naturally that he thought for a moment her rudeness had been unintentional. Perhaps she hadn’t really meant—Everybody in her set was rude, great and rude, but she could be deliciously gracious, and was so now.

“Don’t you think it went off well?”

Dan said that it had been ripping and no mistake.

“I like Lady Caiwarn; she’s bully, and I liked the king. He spoke to me as if he had known me for a year.”

She began to be a little more at her ease.

“I didn’t care much for the fiddling, but Letty Lane made up for all the rest,” said Dan. “Wasn’t she great?”

“Ra-ther!” The duchess’ tone was so warm that he asked frankly: “Well, why didn’t you speak to her, Lily?” And the directness caught her unprepared. The insult to the actress by which she had planned to teach him a lesson failed to give her the bravado she found she needed to meet Dan’s question. Her part of the transaction, deliberate, unkind, seemed worse and more serious through his headlong act, when he had driven off, braving her, in the motor of an actress. She didn’t dare to be jealous.

“Wasn’t it too dreadful?” she murmured. “Do you think she noticed it too awfully? I was just about to go up and speak to her when the prime minister—”

Dan interrupted the duchess. He blushed for her.

“Never mind, Lily.” His tone had in it something of benevolence. “If you really didn’t mean to be mean—”

She was enchanted by her easy victory. “It was abominable.”

“Yes,” he accepted, “it was just that! I was mortified. You wouldn’t treat a beggar so. But she’s got too much sense to care.”

Eager to do the duchess justice, even though he was little by little being emancipated, he was all the more determined to be fair to her.

“It was too sweet of her not to mind. I dare say her check helped to soothe her feelings,” the woman said.

“You don’t know her,” he replied quietly. “She wouldn’t touch a cent.”

The duchess exclaimed in horror: “Then she did mind.”

And he returned slowly: “She’s eaten and drunk with kings, and if the king hadn’t gone so early you can bet he would have set the fashion differently. Let’s drop the question. She sent you back your check, and I guess you’re quits.”

With a sharp note in her voice she said: “I hope it won’t be in the papers that you drove bareheaded back to the hotel with her. Don’t forget that we are dining with the Galoreys, and it’s past seven.”

After Dan had left her, the duchess glanced over the dismantled room which the servants were already restoring to order. She was not at case and not at peace, but there was something else besides her tiff with Dan that absorbed her, and that was Galorey. She couldn’t quite shake him off. He was beginning to be imperious in his demands on her; and, in spite of her cupidity and her debts, in spite of the precarious position in which she found herself with Dan, she could not break with Galorey yet. She went up-stairs humming under her breath the ballad Letty Lane had sung in the music-room:

“Andlongwillhisladylookfromthecastlewall.”