Lady Casterley and her 'major-domo' stood six paces inside the scrolled
iron gates, and watched. The slight, steel-coloured figure with
steel-coloured hair, was more arresting in its immobility than all the
vociferations and gestures of the mob. Her eyes alone moved under their
half-drooped lids; her right hand clutched tightly the handle of
her stick. The speaker's voice rose in shrill protest against
the exploitation of 'the people'; it sank in ironical comment on
Christianity; it demanded passionately to be free from the continuous
burden of 'this insensate militarist taxation'; it threatened that the
people would take things info their own hands.

Lady Casterley turned her head:

"He is talking nonsense, Clifton. It is going to rain. I shall go in."

Under the stone porch she paused. The purple cloud had broken; a blind
fury of rain was deluging the fast-scattering crowd. A faint smile came
on Lady Casterley's lips.

"It will do them good to have their ardour damped a little. You will get
wet, Clifton--hurry! I expect Lord Valleys to dinner. Have a room got
ready for him to dress. He's motoring from Monkland."




CHAPTER III

In a very high, white-panelled room, with but little furniture, Lord