"Well, my dear," she said to Rachel, "I'm sure this is all very pleasant and most unexpected. Let's have some tea."
"I'm afraid," said Rachel, "that it's been standing some time. Let me ring for some fresh."
"No—I like it strong. It used always to be strong when I was younger. This new generation likes things weak, I believe."
Rachel, looking at her grandmother, felt nothing of Roddy's compunction. She did not, even now, grasp entirely Roddy's intention; she had no sure conviction of the climax that he intended; but she did know that here, at last, was her chance; she should lift, once and for all, out from all the lies and confusion that had shrouded them, her attempts at courage and honesty, attempts that had wretchedly, most forlornly failed.
Breton should know, Roddy should know, the Duchess should know, and she herself should never again go back.
Breton did not move from the corner where he was sitting; he waited there, his hand pressing hard upon his knee.
Roddy said, "Most awfully good of you, Duchess, to come out again. I wouldn't have dared to ask you to come if Christopher hadn't said that last time did you no harm."
"Only for you, Roddy," she answered him almost gaily, "and Rachel of course. To-day's a nice day. All that thunder has cleared the air."
What her voice must have seemed to Francis Breton, coming back to him again after so vast a distance, bringing to him a thousand memories, scenes and faces that had been buried, a whole world of regrets, and disappointments.
Rachel gave her her tea; brought a little table to her side.