The Duchess of Wiltshire was a mighty personage in the Hardacres' part of the county. She made social laws and abrogated them. She gave and she took away the brevet of county rank. She made and unmade marriages. To fall under the ban of her displeasure was to be disgraced indeed. She held a double sway in that the duke, her husband, had delegated to her his authority in sublunary matters, he being a severe mathematician and a dry astronomer, who looked at the world out of dull eyes, and regarded it with indifference as a mass of indistinguishable atoms forming a nebula, a sort of Milky Way, concerning which philosophic minds had from time to time theorised. He lived icily remote from society; the duchess, on the contrary, was warmly interested in its doings. In the county she reigned absolute; but in London, recognising the fact that there were other duchesses scattered about Mayfair and Belgravia, she was high-minded enough to modify her claims to despotic government. She felt it, however, her duty to decree that her last reception should mark the end of the London season. To this reception the Hardacres were always invited. In previous years they had mounted the great staircase of Wiltshire House, their names had been called out, the duchess had given them the tips of her fingers, and the duke, tall, white-haired, ascetic, had let them touch his hand with the air of a man absently watching ants crawl over him; they had passed on, mixed with the crowd, and seen their host and hostess no more. But this year, to Mrs. Hardacre's thrilling delight, the duchess gave her quite a friendly squeeze, smiled her entire approbation of Mrs. Hardacre's existence, and detained her for a moment in conversation. “Don't forget to come and have a little talk with me later. I have n't seen you since dear Norma's engagement.” To dear Norma she was equally urbane, called her a lucky girl, and presented her as a bride-elect to the duke, who murmured a vague formula of congratulation which he had remembered from early terrestrial days. “I can't tell you how proud I am of you, Norma!” said Mrs. Hardacre, with a lump in her throat, as they passed on. “The dear duchess! I wonder if I am sufficiently grateful to Providence.” Norma, although in her heart pleased by the manifestation of ducal favour, could not let the opportunity for a taunt pass by. “You can refer to it in your prayers, mother: 'O God, I thank Thee for shedding Her Grace upon me.' Won't that do, father.” “Eh, what?” asked Mr. Hardacre, very red in the face, trailing half a pace behind his wife and daughter. Norma repeated her form of Thanksgiving. “Ha! ha! Devilish good! Tell that in the club,” he said in high good-humour. His wife's glance suddenly withered him. “I don't approve of blasphemy,” she said. “Towards whom, mother dear?” asked Norma, suavely. “The Almighty or the duchess?” “Both,” said Mrs. Hardacre, with a snap.