She tapped Isabel lightly on the cheek with her fan. "You were quite the rage," she said. "I never should have forgiven you if you had not been." And Isabel had not the slightest doubt of her sincerity. The duchess, in the immensity of her castle, did not pretend to keep an eye on any one, and would have been the last to suspect that Miss Otis had inspired her husband with a sudden passion for chickens. She shook hands approvingly with the young American and asked her to come over informally to luncheon on the morrow. "Is your head turning?" asked Miss Thangue, as they drove home. "You must reap the results of your success; it would be a pity not to. After a few weeks here with Vicky you must go on a round of visits and then have a season in London." "It would be glorious!" exclaimed Isabel, in whom problems were moribund. "I certainly believe I shall." She was in the second of the carriages to reach Capheaton, and Gwynne, who was still standing on the steps, helped her down, and asked her pleasantly if she had enjoyed herself. "I had such a good time I know I sha'n't sleep a wink for twenty-four hours. I believe I'll go to the library and get a book of yours I began on Sunday--only--" She hesitated. A talk with this enigmatical cousin would be a proper climax to the triumphs of the night. She raised her eyes, full of flattering appeal. "There are one or two points I did not quite understand--I have hesitated to go on--" He too was wakeful, and rose to the bait promptly. "Suppose you give me an hour by the empty hearth. Will you? Well, go on ahead and I'll follow in a moment--after I see that the men have all they want in the smoking-room." In the depths of the most independent woman's soul is a lingering taint of servility to the lordly male, and in Isabel it warmed into subtle life under the flattering response of this illustrious specimen. She fairly sailed towards the library, wondering if any of the famous old-time California belles, Concha Argueello, Chonita Iturbe y Moncada, with their caballeros flinging gold and silver at their feet, Nina Randolph and Chonita Hathaway and Helena Belmont, with their pugnacious "courts," had ever felt as exultant as she. That last moment, as she stepped lightly over the threshold of the library, was a sort of climax to the intoxication of youth.