_Sibyl_ (in a muffled voice): "N-no; he ... he ... didn’t. He—overrated his strength. He—he—oh, _how_ can I tell you? He was so anxious to play a great part in public affairs ... but he had lost all his energy...." (Sitting up with flushed cheeks—damnably good-looking, Roger feels.) "_Well_! What can I do for you? You’ve failed _me_. But I suppose you’ve come here to ask me to help you in some way. Men don’t generally waste their time on afternoon calls without a motive. What is it? I’ve got no influence anywhere since Francis died" (a sob). "So it’s no good asking _me_ to write to Lord Wiltshire or to Spavins. I hear you are out of favour at the F.O. It’s not _my_ fault, is it? It’s all due to your gallivanting after missionaries’ wives...." (Roger looks sullen.) ... "Heigh ho! I expect with all this crying and tousling among cushions, to hide I _was_ crying from your cynical eyes, I’d better go into my room and bathe my face before the butler brings in the tea.... _There!_ you can pull up two of the blinds—when I am gone—my eyes are so red—and you can look at some of my new books till I come in to make the tea. You mustn’t _dream_ of going before we’ve had tea and finished our talk." "I suppose," said Sibyl a quarter of an hour later when they were discussing tea and tea-cake and pâté-de-foie sandwiches and assorted cakelets, "what you really came to ask was would I present this Lucy-pucy of yours at Court. But, my _dear_, I shall be in mourning for a year, and the Queen——" "_Lord_ no! Such a thing never entered my head. It would scare Lucy into fits. I hope before next season comes round I shall be back in Africa—or somewhere. So far as I connected Lucy with this visit I might have intended to ask you to let me bring her here one day, and for you to be kind to her ... not frighten her, as you very well could do, pretending all the time to be her best friend...." _Sibyl_: "Well: I’ll tell you what you shall do. You must remember I’m in mourning, of course.... We always have to think of what the servants will say.... And—ah! Did I tell you? Aunt Christabel is here. I sent her out the longest drive I could think of, so that we might have our afternoon alone; still, she’s staying here till I emerge from the deepest of my mourning.... By the bye she’s _horrified_ at your marriage, just as she used to be horrified at the idea of your marrying _me_.... Well, bring your Lucy over one day at the end of July and I’ll just have a look at her. And then, in the autumn—say October—you and she, and of course if you like to have them, Maurice and Geoffrey too, could come here for the shooting. _Of course_ I shan’t have a regular party; but somebody must come and shoot the pheasants. The Queen couldn’t object to that. I’ve asked a man—I did before Francis’s death—to come. You might like to meet him: a Sir Willowby Patterne.... Dare say you’ve heard of him?" _Roger_: "I’ve heard no _good_ of him...."