"Of course she doesn't admit it," he said hurriedly. "No one says anything about it—even Christopher. I oughtn't perhaps to have said anything myself—but I thought——" He broke off. Rachel knew that he meant that she should be kind and considerate on this visit.
Before she could say anything the Duke came up and joined them.
It always amused Rachel to see her two uncles together. The Duke was a little dried-up wasp of a man, absolutely selfish, with a satirical tongue and a self-conceit that nothing could pierce. He wore high white collars, over which his brown sharp face searched for compliments. He walked on his toes, his hands were most wonderfully manicured and his trousers were so stiff and rigid over his thin little legs that they looked like iron. The one soft spot in him was a strangely tender affection for his sister Adela which was in no way returned; for her, and for her alone, he would forget his selfishness. Richard and John he despised.
"Well, John," he said. "Well, Rachel?"
"Well, Uncle Vincent," she said. The Duke was afraid of Rachel because her tongue was as sharp as his, but he respected her for that.
"Going up to see mother?"
"Yes," said Rachel. Should she go? Should she go?
Suddenly, arising, as it seemed, out of that crowd of moving figures and coming and standing there in front of her, was her answer.
Yes, she would go. All these months of indetermination should be ended. She should know, once and for all, what this Francis Breton meant to her, what that other life of hers meant to her, and so, in opposition, what Roddy meant to her. She would, as Christopher would have put it, grapple with her Tiger....
Instantly, the relief, the glad, happy relief showed her how wretched life had been.