“Are you in such great haste, Mrs Desmond?” she asked in a voice that cut like a knife. Instinctively she glanced at Frederic's face. She saw the muscles of the jaw harden and an angry light leap into his eyes. Instantly her arrogance fell away. “I beg your pardon, Mrs Desmond. I have many bad habits. Now will you kindly show me to my room? I prefer that you and not one of the servants should be my guide. _Au revoir_, Frederic. Till tea-time, James.” Her eyes were sparkling, her husky voice once more full of the appealing quality that could not be denied. The flush of injured pride faded from Mrs Desmond's brow and a faint look of surprise crept into her eyes. She was surprised at her own inclination to overlook the affront, and not by the change in Mrs Brood's manner. She smiled an unspoken pardon and stood aside for the new mistress to pass in front of her. To her further amazement the younger woman laid a hand upon her arm and gave it a gentle, friendly pressure. The men watched them in silence as they left the room side by side. A moment later they heard the soft laughter of the two women as they mounted the stairs. Frederic drew a long breath. “She's splendid, father,” he said impulsively. Brood's face was still clouded. He did not respond to the eager tribute. Mr Dawes cleared his throat and cast a significant glance toward the dining-room. “What do you say to a drink to the bride, Jim?” he said, somewhat explosively. He had been silent for a longer period than usual. It wasn't natural for him to be voiceless, even when quite alone. “Good idea,” added Mr Riggs. “I was just thinking of it myself. A health to the bride, my boy, and good luck to you both.” “A glass to prosperity,” said Mr Dawes, with a wave of his hand. “And two for posterity,” added Mr Riggs in an ecstasy of triumph. A flush mounted to Brood's cheek. Young Frederic abruptly turned away. “Thank you, my friends,” said Brood, after a moment. “I'll leave the bumpers to you, if you don't mind. It isn't meet that the groom should drink to himself, and that's what you are suggesting. Go and have your drinks, gentlemen, but leave me out.” They looked disappointed, aggrieved. “I said posterity,” expostulated Mr Riggs. “No harm in your drinking to _that_, is there?” “Shut up, Riggs,” hissed Mr Dawes, nudging him with some violence. “Oh!” said his friend, with a quick look at Frederic. Then, as if inspired: “Come on, Freddy. Join us. Come and drink to the--to your--er--stepmother.” He floundered miserably. “My God!” he gasped under his breath. “Thank you, Mr Riggs. I'm not drinking,” said Frederic. Dawes conducted Riggs to the dining-room door. There he turned and remarked: “Stick to that resolution, Freddy. See what old man Riggs has come to! If it wasn't for me and your father he'd be in the gutter.” “That's right, Freddy,” agreed Mr Riggs with rare amiability. He felt that he owed something to Frederic in the way of apology.