It was the morning of the Duchess of Devonshire’s rout that Carstares again broached the subject. My lady was in bed, her fair hair unpowdered and streaming all about her shoulders, her chocolate on a small table at her side and countless billets doux from admirers scattered on the sheet. In her hand she held a bouquet of white roses with a card attached bearing, in bold, sprawling characters, the initials “ H. L.” Perhaps it was the sight of those incriminating letters that roused Richard’s anger. At all events, with a violence quite unlike his usual gentle politeness, he snatched the flowers from her hand, and sent them whizzing into a corner.

“Let there be an end to all this folly!” he cried.

Lavinia raised herself on one elbow, astonished.

“H-how dare you?” she gasped.