“She must leave it; and you must see that preparations are duly made, so that she cannot remain in it.” Mr. Mason coughed slightly. “My lord, I have heard that there are tenants in Ireland who will not go out till the thatch is set afire over their heads, and even then let themselves and their pigs be burnt rather than give up possession. I mean no disrespect, my lord, when I venture to say that my lady--I mean her Grace--is very much of that kind of temper, my lord.” “I know she is,” said Hurstmanceaux. “That is why I speak to you on this matter. Go out of the house she must.” “Of course I will do my best, my lord,” said Mason in a dubious tone; he knew if her Grace did not choose anything to be packed up nothing would be. At that moment Cecile, the head maid, entered; she was a tall, supercilious, conceited-looking Swiss woman of forty. “If you please, my lord,” she said, looking impudently in Ronald’s face, “her Grace would be glad to know when you mean to go out of the house, as her Grace is waiting to come downstairs.” Hurstmanceaux turned his back on her. “You have received my orders, Mason. The landlord resumes possession here on the last day of the month.” Then he went into the hall and out of the house door. “_Quel ours!_” said Cecile, with her nose in the air. She liked gentlemen like the foreign diplomatist who had gone to see the Battersea birds. Mr. Mason shook his head in a melancholy manner. “I think we had better all of us leave,” he said gloomily. “The Miser’s got the purse-strings now and the duchess aren’t anywhere.” “_Moi, j’ resterai_,” said the Swiss woman. “She does hit one with the hairbrush sometimes and pretty hard too, but she is first-rate fun, and always leaves her letters about, and never knows what she has or she hasn’t. Take my word for it, Mr. Mason, _she_ will always live in clover.” “I dare say she will,” said the more virtuous Mason. “But it won’t be correct, now Cocky’s gone; and myself I shall give her the go-by.” Their mistress meanwhile was walking up and down her morning-room, a prey to many torturing and conflicting thoughts. She knew that she had done an unwise and an ill-bred thing in sending that message by Cecile to her brother, but her rage had outstripped her prudence. Ronald was the best friend she had, and she had proved it a thousand times; but an ungovernable hatred seethed within her against him. He and Harry--she did not know which she hated the more, which of the two had insulted her the more infamously. A woman may lose all title to respect, but that is no reason why she does not retain every pretension to it.