They were all silent. She sat there, her head down, leaning on her hands, brooding. Her anger seemed to have departed, her fire, her fury had fled: she was a very old woman--and the room was suddenly chilly. Before her were Rachel and Breton: they faced the ancient enemy. But as Rachel stood there, realizing that there had flashed between them the climax of all their lives together, yes, and a climax of forces greater and more powerful than anything that their own small histories could contain, she had no sense of drama nor of revenge nor of any triumphant victory. A little while before she had been almost insane with anger.... Now something had occurred. Rachel only knew that the three of them--Roddy, Francis and herself--were young and immensely vigorous, with all life before them; but that one day they would be old, as this old woman, and would be deserted and sick and past anyone's need of them. "Oh! I wish we hadn't! I wish we hadn't!" she thought. In that moment's silence they all might have heard the sound of the soft, sharp click--the click that marked the supreme moment of their relationship to the situation that had, for all of them, been so long developing-- Breton surrendered Rachel, Roddy received her, and, beyond them all, the Duchess definitely abandoned her world. For them all, grouped there so closely together, the heart of their relations the one to the other had been revealed to them. Other dramas, other comedies, other tragedies--This had claimed its moment and had passed.... After the silence the Duchess said, "My family--I no longer...." She stopped, collected, with all her will, her words, then in a low voice said, looking at Breton, "I owe you, I suppose--an apology. I owe that perhaps to you all. My children are wiser in their own generation. I no longer understand--the way things go--all too confused for my poor intelligence." She pulled herself together as an old ship rights itself after a roller's stinging blow. "This has lasted long enough.... We've all talked--My family are--wiser--it seems." But she could not go on. "Please, Roddy," she said at length, "I think it's time--if you'd ring." "I'm sorry----" he said and then stopped. Soon Peters and a footman appeared. She leaned heavily upon them and, staring before her at the door, slowly went out. CHAPTER IX RACHEL AND RODDY "Tell me, Praise, and tell me, Love, What you both are thinking of? O, we think, said Love, said Praise, Now of children and their ways." WILLIAM BRIGHTY RAND. I Breton had gone; the room was empty. Rachel came and, kneeling on the floor, hid her face in Roddy's coat. He put his hands about hers. His only desire now was that there should be peaceful silence. His hatred for scenes had always been with him an instinct, natural, alert, untiring, so that he would undertake many labours, forgo many pleasant prizes, if only emotional crises might be avoided.