She had always known that the moment when love came would be the moment of most extreme danger. She had vowed to her gods, when she saw what her own marriage had made of her life, that her son should absolutely have his way; he should choose, and she would be the very last person in the world to stop him. She had hoped, she had even prayed, that the woman whom he should choose would be some one whom her husband would admit as possible. Then the strength of the house would be inviolate and the terrible moment would be averted. That was, perhaps, the reason that she had so readily and enthusiastically welcomed Alice Du Cane. The girl would “do” from Sir Richard’s point of view, and Lady Gale herself liked her, almost loved her. If Tony cared, why then . . . and at first Tony had seemed to care. But even while she had tried to convince herself, she knew that it was not, for him at any rate, the “real thing.” One did not receive it like that, with that calmness, and even familiar jocularity, when the “real thing” came. But she had persuaded herself eagerly, because it would, in nearly every way, be so suitable. And then suddenly the “real thing” had come, come with its shining eyes and beautiful colour; Tony had found it. She had no hesitation after that. Tony must go on with it, must go through with it, and she must prevent Sir Richard from seeing anything until it was all over. As to that, she had done her best, heaven knew, she had done her best. But circumstances had been too strong for her; she saw it, with frightened eyes and trembling hands, slipping from her grasp. Why had Tony been so foolish? Why had he stayed out again like that and missed dinner? Why was he so disturbed now? It was all threatening to fall about her ears; she saw the quarrel; she saw Tony, arrogant, indignant, furious. He had left them, never to return. She saw herself sitting with her husband, old, ill, lonely, by some desolate fireside in an empty house, and Tony would never return. But she continued to discuss aeroplanes; she knew another thing about her husband. She knew that if Tony was once married Sir Richard might storm and rage but would eventually make the best of it. The house must be carried on, that was one of his fixed principles of life; Tony single, and every nerve should be strained to make his marriage a fitting one, but Tony married! Why then, curse the young fool, what did he do it for? . . . but let us nevertheless have a boy, and quick about it! Provided the girl were possible—the girl _must_ be possible; but she had Maradick’s word for that. He had told Alice that she was “splendid!” Yes, let the marriage only take place and things might be all right, but Sir Richard must not know.