Meanwhile the mind of the Duchess was in a buzz of contradictory humours. She was uncertain of herself. She wanted to express ideas the very opposite of her age-worn convictions. For the first time she saw herself as not quite the most important creature amongst the stars. Beyond all else, above all else, at that phase of the conflict, the insatiable desire to make a pun beset her. Horrible! Horrible! The better half of her mind, the predominant partner of her will, bravely and silently exclaimed against its dreadfulness. But imps seemed playing pranks with her, giving her a thousand opportunities for some infamous punning. The propensity had hold of her like neuralgia; it needed all her firmness and stolid prejudice to counteract the tendency, and prevent the commission of that lowest form of verbal play. During the whole of the battle Strauss and Chopin were supplying their melodies; and June was feeling fiercely unmerciful. Then the men came drifting in. The ladies woke from their languors. Bridge was mentioned. Geoffrey, seeing the frowns and energy in his mother’s face, wondered who had offended. He looked sharply at Mrs. Thyme; she was evidently not the culprit. He found her smiling at Sir Claude, and making room for him by her side on a settee. The Baronet had always some entertaining ill-natured tattle at the end of his tongue. He was the Autolycus of tinted gossip. June, in sheer puckishness of spirit, touched the Baronet with a spell. His stories became Sunday tales. They were dilatory and improving. Mrs. Billie frankly told him he bored. It was the Duke who noticed the tiara out of place. He sauntered over to his wife, wondering how this could have happened. He saw new wrinkles about her eyes. Her face had an east-wind expression. "Edith," he murmured, "look in the mirror. Your tiara." The pained look went. Her fashionable callousness for a moment melted. She raised her hands to the tiara to mend the mischief. A pun--the only pun possible under the circumstances--was on her lips. It came to the edge of expression; she to the brink of defeat. She rallied her forces desperately. She would not be beaten. But the magic was potent. She had to say it, and did--to herself. Her lips moved mutely. That was the beginning of the fairies’ victory. Suddenly June felt pity for the _grande dame_, who, in her solitude of station, knew no better. Already with her keen susceptibilities she could see the real aspect of sadness in that golden scene. Paradise Court had its hopelessness, its waste and poverty; so had Armingham House--hopelessness, waste, poverty, as actual, if not worse, though different, very different, from what the poorest know.