"You are wondering why I am the Shadowy Lady," she asked with a glint of amusement in her eyes, "yet you must remember a time—did I not overhear you claiming acquaintance with Lincoln?—when it was woman’s prerogative to retire: when her virtues were concomitant with her obscurity. Some women rebelled and reached fame by way of the law courts, some women rebelled and died, some acquiesced, waiting for the fashion to change. I was one of those, and when the fashion changed I was satisfied with the old order and remained behind the curtain, peaceably." He looked at her and nodded. "I understand," he said, for there was sufficient of the woman in his heart to understand sacrifice. She walked away and sent him Alicia. They were exchanging banalities for the benefit of the surrounding audience when Hank came looking preternaturally solemn. "That custard, Duke." His friend stared. "What about it?" "She’s gone." The Duke waited. "That custard," said Hank impressively, "we made her, boiled her, stuck eggs all over her, and put her outside on the window-ledge to cool off." The Duke said nothing, but his lips quivered. "That custard was surely great," Hank went on, growing melancholy, "we copied her out of an evenin’ paper, and whisked her and frisked her till she sizzled—and she’s gone." There was a solemn pause; the spectators held their breath, out of respect for Hank’s grief. "Whilst there was a sound of revelry downstairs, there came a thief," said Hank oracularly, "she clomb up the rare-old-ivy-green and started in to sample that custard." The Duke leant forward. "Not Tibs?" he asked breathlessly. "Oh, not Tibs?" pleaded the girl. "Tibs, it was surely," said Hank bitterly, "I saw that kinky tail of hers goin’ over the wall." X The Duke had secured a few minutes alone with the girl. The remainder of the guests had departed, and Hank was keeping Mrs. Terrill mildly amused with an exposition of his philosophy. It was a memorable day in the Duke’s life, for amongst other unique experiences, he felt a diffidence amounting to shyness. Remarkably enough it was the girl who was cool and self-possessed. He tried to carry off the matter with a high hand, but, as Hank so expressively put it, "he wilted some." "Alicia," he began huskily—his throat-clearing cough was a confession of weakness. "Did you like mother?" she asked. He could see she had no fear of the verdict. As he spoke of her he gained courage and took her hand, inanely enough, and she laughed a low, happy, amused laugh. He laughed too, but sheepishly. "Courage, mon enfant," she said boldly.