"No. Here and now." Her words flashed at him. "You've begun to think yourself indispensable. Because I've shown you that I rely upon you--Because, at times, I've seemed to need your aid--therefore you've interfered in matters that are no concern of yours." "They are concerns of mine," he answered firmly, "in so far as this affair is connected with my friend." "Your friend and my granddaughter," she retorted. "But it is not only that. I will return you your own words. You say that your friend is in danger--what of mine? You have dared to attack someone who is more to me than you and all the rest of the world put together. Someone whom I care for as I have never cared for my own sons. It was bold of you, Dr. Christopher, and I shall not forget it." He took it without flinching. "Very well," he said. "But my word to the end is the same. If you marry Seddon to your granddaughter you do your own sense of justice wrong." At that the last vestige of restraint left her. Leaning forward in her chair she poured her words upon him in a torrent of anger. Her voice was not raised, but her words cut the air, and now and again she raised her hands in a movement of furious protest. She spared him nothing, dragged forward old incidents, old passages between them that he had thought long ago forgotten, reminded him of occasions when he had been mistaken or over-certain, accused him of crimes that would have caused him to leave the country had there been a vestige of truth in her words; at last, beaten for breath, gasped out: "Sir Roderick Seddon shall know of what you accuse him. He shall deal with you----" "I have nothing," Christopher answered gravely, "against Seddon--nothing except that he should not marry Rachel!" "You have attacked him!" she gasped out. "He--shall--answer." But her rage had exhausted her. She lay back against her chair, heaving, clutching at the arms for support. He summoned Dorchester, but when he approached the Duchess feebly motioned him away. "I've--done--with you--never again," she murmured. She seemed then most desperately old. Her dress was in disorder, her face wizened with deep lines beneath her eyes and hollows in her cheeks. Christopher waited while Dorchester helped her mistress into the farther room. For some time there was silence. The room was stifling, and, impatiently, he pulled back the heavy red curtains. He sat, waiting, eyeing the stupid dragons, every now and again glancing at his watch. Even now the room seemed to vibrate with her voice, and he could imagine that the French novel, fallen from her lap on to the carpet, winked at him as much as to say: "Oh, we're up to her tempers, aren't we? We know what they're worth. _We_ don't care!" At last Dorchester appeared. "Her Grace is in bed and will see you, sir," she said. Her face was grave and without expression. After another glance at his watch he passed into the bedroom. CHAPTER VIII THE TIGER