Lady Torridon led the way to the oak parlour in silence.
She made no more assaults that night; but sat in dignified aloofness, her hands on her lap, with an air of being unconscious of the presence of the others. Beatrice sat with Margaret on the long oak settle; and talked genially to the company at large.
When compline had been said, Sir James drew Chris aside into the star-lit court as the others went on in front.
“Dear lad,” he said, “what are we to do? This cannot go on. Your mother—”
Chris smiled at him, and took his arm a moment.
“Why, father,” he said, “what more do we want? Mistress Atherton can hold her own.”
“But your mother will insult her.”
“She will not be able,” said Chris. “Mistress Atherton will not have it. Did you not see how she enjoyed it?”
“Enjoyed it?”