"He arrives to-morrow. On his way from Scotland—to Windsor."
Mrs. Alcot enjoyed the effect of her communication on her companion. He sat open-mouthed, evidently startled out of all self-command.
"Why, I thought that Lady Kitty—"
"Had vowed vengeance? So, in a sense, she has. It is understood that she and Lady Parham don't meet, except—"
"On formal occasions, and to take in the groundlings," said Darrell, too impatient to let her finish her sentence. "Yes, that I gathered. But you mean that Lord Parham is to be allowed to make his peace?"
Madeleine Alcot lay back and laughed.
"Kitty wishes to try her hand at managing him."
Darrell joined her in mirth. The notion of the white-haired, bullet-headed, shrewd, and masterful man who at that moment held the Premiership of England managed by Kitty, or any other daughter of Eve—always excepting his wife—must needs strike those who had the slightest acquaintance with Lord Parham as a delicious absurdity.
Suddenly Darrell checked himself, and bent forward.
"Where—if I may ask—is the poet?"