Madame de Chantelle--possibly as the result of her friend’s ministrations--was able to appear at the dinner-table, rather pale and pink-nosed, and casting tenderly reproachful glances at her grandson, who faced them with impervious serenity; and the situation was relieved by the fact that Miss Viner, as usual, had remained in the school-room with her pupil. Darrow conjectured that the real clash of arms would not take place till the morrow; and wishing to leave the field open to the contestants he set out early on a solitary walk. It was nearly luncheon-time when he returned from it and came upon Anna just emerging from the house. She had on her hat and jacket and was apparently coming forth to seek him, for she said at once: “Madame de Chantelle wants you to go up to her.” “To go up to her? Now?” “That’s the message she sent. She appears to rely on you to do something.” She added with a smile: “Whatever it is, let’s have it over!” Darrow, through his rising sense of apprehension, wondered why, instead of merely going for a walk, he had not jumped into the first train and got out of the way till Owen’s affairs were finally settled. “But what in the name of goodness can I do?” he protested, following Anna back into the hall. “I don’t know. But Owen seems so to rely on you, too----” “Owen! Is HE to be there?” “No. But you know I told him he could count on you.” “But I’ve said to your mother-in-law all I could.” “Well, then you can only repeat it.” This did not seem to Darrow to simplify his case as much as she appeared to think; and once more he had a movement of recoil. “There’s no possible reason for my being mixed up in this affair!” Anna gave him a reproachful glance. “Not the fact that I am?” she reminded him; but even this only stiffened his resistance. “Why should you be, either--to this extent?” The question made her pause. She glanced about the hall, as if to be sure they had it to themselves; and then, in a lowered voice: “I don’t know,” she suddenly confessed; “but, somehow, if THEY’RE not happy I feel as if we shouldn’t be.” “Oh, well--” Darrow acquiesced, in the tone of the man who perforce yields to so lovely an unreasonableness. Escape was, after all, impossible, and he could only resign himself to being led to Madame de Chantelle’s door. Within, among the bric-a-brac and furbelows, he found Miss Painter seated in a redundant purple armchair with the incongruous air of a horseman bestriding a heavy mount. Madame de Chantelle sat opposite, still a little wan and disordered under her elaborate hair, and clasping the handkerchief whose visibility symbolized her distress. On the young man’s entrance she sighed out a plaintive welcome, to which she immediately appended: “Mr. Darrow, I can’t help feeling that at heart you’re with me!” The directness of the challenge made it easier for Darrow to protest, and he reiterated his inability to give an opinion on either side. “But Anna declares you have--on hers!”