It was upon one of her clear days that it flashed upon her that she would go and see Roddy. Beyond the actual excitement of visiting Roddy there was the determination to show the world what she still could do. Doubtless they were saying out there that she was bedridden now, ill, helpless, dying even ... well, she would show them. For thirty years she had not been outside her door--now, because she wished it, she would go. She said nothing to Adela about this--she saw Adela now as seldom as possible. She told John on the morning of the day itself--on that same morning she told Christopher. She told him sitting in her chair, with her cheeks painted and her white fingers covered with rings-- "I'm going to pay a visit--this afternoon, Christopher." She had expected opposition--she was a little disappointed when he said-- "Yes, so I've already heard this morning. I think it's an excellent thing--the day's warm. You'll have to be carried downstairs, you know----" "You and Norris can do that. I won't have anyone else." "Very well, I shall have to come with you----" "Yes--You can talk to my granddaughter." "It's thirty years...." "Yes--The last time was Old Judy Bonnings's reception. They're all dead--all of 'em--D'you remember, Dorchester?" "Yes--Your Grace--Very well." Dorchester expressed no surprise--Anything was better than that silence of the last months. Moreover she had trusted Christopher. She had often been amazed at the knowledge that he showed of her mistress's temperament, would allow her temper, her imperious self-will indulgence one day and on another would control them absolutely. He knew what he was doing.... The picture that she presented, however, when helped downstairs by the pontifical Norris and Christopher! the house, with the decorous watchfulness of some large, solemn, and immensely authoritative policeman, surveying her descent, her own little bird-like face, showing nothing but a fine assumption of her splendid appearance before the public, after thirty years, she thus, once again, was saluted by Portland Place! Black furs of Lady Adela's surrounded, enfolded her, and from out of them her eyes haughtily but triumphantly surveyed a crossing-sweeper, two small children with their nurse, a messenger boy, and Roller the coachman. To Roller this must have been _the_ dramatic moment of a somewhat undramatic career, but stout and imperial upon his box his body was held, rigid, motionless, and his large stupid eyes gazed in front of him at the trees and the light cloud-flecked March sky, and moved neither to the right nor to the left.