"I think we had better be going," said Lady Adela. "I suppose so," said Mrs. Welwyn helplessly. But Lucius Welwyn made a last effort. All seemed lost, yet his inherent polish and _savoir faire_ rebelled against such an inglorious and ignominious end as this. "I must apologise most sincerely for this _contretemps_, Lady Adela," he said with a ready smile. "Those fellows are two disciples of mine. Law students--British Museum--and so on. They come here periodically to receive instruction from me in my library upstairs"--Lady Adela looked up and regarded him steadily, but he continued with perfect coolness--"but I fear that on this occasion racial animosity has proved stronger than academic unity of purpose. You will understand, I am sure." "Perfectly," replied Lady Adela. "Come, Sylvia." Sylvia was quite ready, but at this moment the door flew open once more, and Dicky and Percy reappeared, flushed, panting, but triumphant. "It’s all right, Mrs. Welwyn," announced Dicky reassuringly. "The brunette gentleman has bolted himself into the bathroom, and we have locked up the blonde in a broom-cupboard. Hallo, Mum--going?" "Yes. Come, Sylvia." "Certainly, Mother," said Sylvia. Dicky’s ear caught the danger-note in his sister’s voice. He stood transfixed, with dismay written across his frank but heated features. "I say," he stammered. "Mum--Sylvia--what does all this mean?" "Good-bye, Mrs. Welwyn," said Lady Adela calmly. "Thank you for--ah--entertaining us. I suppose one can get a cab here?" She shook Mrs. Welwyn’s nerveless hand and turned to Mr. Mainwaring, who stood awkwardly smoothing his hat. "Are you ready, Abel?" she enquired. Suddenly Tilly Welwyn rose from her knees by her grandmother’s side, and, to employ a dramatic expression, took the centre of the stage. She stood face to face with her departing guests, her head thrown back and her hands clenched--a very slim, very upright, very dignified little figure. "Sit down, please, everybody, if you will be so kind," she said quietly. "I shan’t keep you long." Lady Adela, looking like a boa-constrictor which has been challenged to mortal combat by a small and inexperienced chicken, stood stockstill, with her head oscillating from side to side in a slightly uncertain fashion. Then, recovering herself, she fell back in good order upon her supporters. The Welwyns, closing loyally upon their small champion, spoke in anxious undertones. "Don’t chuck up the sponge, Sis," whispered Percy encouragingly. "We’ll pull you through." "Don’t lose your head, my child," counselled her father. "You may make things worse." "Tilly, dearie, can you ever forgive me?" was all Mrs. Welwyn said. She forgot, in her selfless grief for the destruction of her daughter’s castle-in-the-air, that she herself had predicted its fall. Little ’Melia said nothing, but passionately squeezed her sister’s hand.