The moment she had closed the door, her mistress called her back.

“And send Mrs. Butterick as well.”

“Yes, madam.”

Mason went downstairs with the report that something was in the air.  She had a feeling, she said.

The interview with Taylor was shorter—­more to the point.

“I’m expecting my brother—­Mr. Traill, and probably a lady,” she said.  She laid no stress on the last word, much as the temptation assailed her.  “It’s quite likely they may be down to lunch.  When they come, there is no need to say that I am here, unless, of course, Mr. Traill asks you.  You’d better go and change your dress at once.”

Then she turned to Mrs. Butterick.

“You’ve taken off the chintz covers?” she said.

“Yes, madam.”

“Ordered the flowers?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Well, now, what have you got in for lunch?”

“There’s some lamb, madam.”

“Well—­that’s no good—­I’d better tell you what I want.  A heavy lunch like that is impossible.  I want all dainty little dishes—­something out of the common, I leave it entirely to you.  Four courses will be enough.  And Sauterne and Burgundy.  Tell Taylor we’ll have coffee in the dining-room.  Now my hair, Mason.”

So she marshalled forces, occupied positions and concentrated artillery in preparation for the siege.  The generalship of a woman is never so keen, so instinct with strategy, as when she gives battle against another of her sex.  Her campaign against men, when once she takes up arms, is mimic warfare—­a sham fight—­compared to this.  Against a man, she needs but a company of fascinations, and in one attack his squares—­the stern veterans of determination—­are driven to flight.  But with a woman, whole regiments of cunning, whole battalions of craft, with all the well-trained scouts of intuition and all the dashing cavalries of charm, are needed to rout her absolutely from the field.

Within an hour Mrs. Durlacher descended to the dining-room.  The gown she wore would not have pleased a man to infatuation; but a woman would have realized its beauty, known its value.  With deft fingers, she arranged the flowers.  In a chair by the fire, hiding herself from view to any one outside the window, she sat and watched the table being laid, giving orders how the vases were to be placed on the old oak table.

“Lay two places—­that’s all,” she said.

Taylor looked up.  “I thought you said there would be a lady with Mr. Traill, madam.”

“I said—­probably.  You can lay another place if she comes.”  A vision crossed her mind of making so small a point as that, a moment of embarrassment for her unwelcome guest.

Then a sound reached her ears.  Her eyes were arrested, fixed unseeingly to a point before her as she listened.

“Is that a motor, Taylor?”

Taylor looked out of the window.  “It’s a taxi-cab, madam.”