“Ah,” she interrupted, “and have I no post to hold against the same enemy? How many servants would my grandmother retain if I set the example?” “Diana!” The word escaped him in an uncontrollable impulse of tenderness. But he checked himself again on the very leap of passion. “Ah,” he murmured, “I shall have a brave daughter!” She smiled, as a woman smiles at the hurt inflicted by the best-beloved. There came from without the sound of voices, uplifted in the pleasant, artificial accents that mark the social meeting, and Lionel Ratcliffe ushered a couple of elderly visitors into the room with his elaborate, if ironic, courtesy. “You are not the first, gentlemen, you perceive. Indeed, my worthy ancestress is somewhat behind-hand in her usual punctilio. But she has been engaged (with my assistance) in the dismissal of a saucy footman who has had the insolence to remark to her upon these red crosses with which it hath become the rage to adorn the doors of certain houses these days.” Both the men laughed uneasily. “Tut, tut!” cried the elder and stouter, and sniffed surreptitiously at his pomander box. “Quite so,” assented Lionel, suavely. Whereupon the other guest broke out, as in anger:— “A monstrous nuisance, ’pon honour! Gad, sirs, I am here straight from a crony’s house—my Lord Vernon’s and no other. What think you greets me from the door-step—a nobleman’s door, mark you! The cross, sir, the cross! and by my soul, the text, ‘_Lord have mercy on us!_’ writ beneath in chalk!” “Lord ’a’ mercy!” exclaimed the stout man, starting back involuntarily. “You did not cross the threshold?” “No, Mr. Foulkes,” returned the younger severely. Then he burst forth again, a man mightily offended by the indelicacy of events: “Gad, sir, I’m not fond of the country, but I’m for it to-morrow!” Foulkes again sniffed his spice-box, this time openly. “Why, so am I, Sir John!—Ah, Mistress Harcourt, your humble devoted!” Ratcliffe, who had anxiously looked round the room for Madame de Mantes, while the guests exchanged greetings, now saw her emerge from the window recess, and threw her a keen, enquiring glance. Without meeting his eyes, she came forward with a great rustle of ballooning silk so that all turned toward her. “Pray, Mr. Ratcliffe,” said she, in a gay and coquettish voice, “you have not yet presented me to your kinswoman.” Ratcliffe shot swift scrutiny from beneath his drawn brows at Diana’s surprised face, at Lord Rockhurst’s dark, impassive countenance and the Frenchwoman’s crimson cheeks and haggard eyes, imperceptibly shrugged his shoulders, and complied:— “Cousin Diana—Madame de Mantes, who is kind enough to add her charming presence to our dwindling company to-night. Agreeably to our grandmother’s wish, I have been acting herald to her hospitality.”