The note, brought to her by Norris and lying now beside her plate, had told her so. The note of course had been from Roddy. It said:
"Dear Duchess,
I don't want to ask anything impossible of you, but, encouraged by your coming to me the other day and hearing that you took no harm from your expedition, I am wondering whether to-morrow afternoon about five you could come again and have tea with me. There is something about which you can help me—only you in all the world. If I don't hear from you I will conclude that you can come—five o'clock.
Your affectionate friend,
Roddy."
That letter showed the perfection of his tactful understanding....
No absurd talk about her age, her feebleness, the weather, but simply it was taken for granted that of course she would be there. Well, of course, she would be there—nothing should stop her. She was aware that Christopher, hearing that to-night she had not been so well, would certainly forbid her to move. He should, therefore, know nothing about it, nothing at all. His visit would be paid in the morning—she would have the afternoon to herself—Norris and Dorchester should help her to the carriage.
Christopher expected, on his arrival, to find her in a very bad way, exhausted by the closeness of the evening: it was possible that he might have to remain all night. He found her in bed, a lace cap on her head, a crimson dressing-gown about her shoulders, and all her rings glittering upon her fingers. An old-fashioned massive silver candlestick with six branches illuminated the lacquer bed, the black Indian chairs, the fantastic wall-paper. The windows were closed and the dry heat of the room was appalling.
She was in her mildest, most amiable mood, had enjoyed an excellent dinner, laughed her cracked, discordant laugh, was delighted to see him.
"Sit down, there, close to me. Have some coffee."
"No, thank you."
"Dorchester can bring it in a minute."
"No, really, thank you."