“The Court has left this morning, dear madam; hence this unwonted emptiness of your rooms. Nevertheless, here is a lady of the royal circle. Madame de Mantes, of the house of Madame Henriette de France, and honoured by their Majesties’ particular regard—she still prefers the advantages of the town.” The aged face became wreathed in smiles. “I trust their Majesties were in good health, madam, when last you saw them,” said my Lady Chillingburgh in stately condescension. Jeanne courtesied mechanically. She felt of a sudden childishly afraid of the figure in the chair, old, old and nearly dead, yet so alive! The faint, hollow voice went on, as from the recesses of a tomb:— “You play cards, of course, Madame de Mantes!” To which the other made answer feebly, into space:— “Yes … yes, milady. I came to play.” A slight shade of surprise appeared in the hostess’s eyes; but after a second, she made another gesture with the clawlike hand, and turned with an unerring precision of politeness to her friends:— “Sir John, I rejoice to see you; you had failed us of late. Ah, Mr. Foulkes, you indeed are ever faithful! But where is your good lady?” “She deemed it wiser—hem,” Foulkes coughed, a-sweat with embarrassment, “I mean, she had accepted an invitation to the country, and left this morning with our family.” “Indeed!” commented the venerable hostess, regally. “My Lord Rockhurst, you prefer basset, I know. So does Sir John. Will you be seated yonder? Grandson, to my left. Madame, will you face me, if you please? Mr. Foulkes, sir, to my right. Diana, child, shuffle the cards.” They fell into their places as she willed them; and for a little while round the greater table there was naught but the business of the moment: the necessary words of the game, the rattle of the dice, the whisper of sliding cards. Diana, her fresh young beauty drawn close in startling contrast to her grandmother’s awe-inspiring face, held the cards for the trembling fingers, flung the dice. In the window recess, the two men, under cover of a languid contest, conversed gravely in undertones. But ever and again the Lord Constable’s gaze, charged with anxiety, sought Diana’s radiant head. Jeanne had flung herself feverishly into the game, which seemed to her all at once a matter of colossal importance. “I marvel extremely,” quoth Lady Chillingburgh, “that my Lord Marsham should be so late. You are acquaint with my Lord Marsham, madame? He is much at Whitehall. We are indeed a small party to-night. Let us hope my lord will presently appear.” Foulkes, who had shown increasing agitation during this speech, now dropped his cards with a muffled “Mercy be good to us!” Ratcliffe kicked him under the table, the while addressing his bland tones to his grandmother. “Do not expect his lordship to-night, madam. I hear he has convened a party of his own.”