Before he spoke, the Marchioness was aware that something was wrong. Even before he opened his lips she felt as though a heavy hand, cold and commanding, was laid upon her.
She looked up into her son’s face and what she saw there made her heart throb with a frightened, apprehensive violence.
“I wish to speak with you, Mother,” he said quietly. “Would you oblige me by coming with me to the library?”
The Marchioness was sophisticated enough not to reveal her feelings.
“La, Justin,” she said, “what a time of night to choose to approach me! Is the house on fire? Are there thieves about? ’Tis obvious that you are a bearer of ill tidings.”
“Fie on you, Vulcan,” someone said, “for taking your mother from us at this moment. I declare that she has never been in better spirits. She has set us a
