On the day following, Lady Glencora was again in Park Lane.  When she first read Madame Goesler’s letter, she felt herself to be annoyed and angry, but her anger was with herself rather than with her correspondent.  Ever since her last interview with the woman whom she had feared, she had been conscious of having been indiscreet.  All her feelings had been too violent, and it might well have been that she should have driven this woman to do the very thing that she was so anxious to avoid.  “You owe me some little apology,” Madame Goesler had said.  It was true,—­and she would apologise.  Undue pride was not a part of Lady Glencora’s character.  Indeed, there was not enough of pride in her composition.  She had been quite ready to hate this woman, and to fight her on every point as long as the danger existed; but she was equally willing to take the woman to her heart now that the danger was over.  Apologise!  Of course she would apologise.  And she would make a friend of the woman if the woman wished it.  But she would not have the woman and the Duke at Matching together again, lest, after all, there might be a mistake.  She did not show Madame Goesler’s letter to her husband, or tell him anything of the relief she had received.  He had cared but little for the danger, thinking more of his budget than of the danger; and would be sufficiently at his ease if he heard no more rumours of his uncle’s marriage.  Lady Glencora went to Park Lane early on the Tuesday morning, but she did not take her boy with her.  She understood that Madame Goesler might perhaps indulge in a little gentle raillery at the child’s expense, and the mother felt that this might be borne the more easily if the child were not present.

“I have come to thank you for your letter, Madame Goesler,” said Lady Glencora, before she sat down.

“Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to dance at our bridal?” said Madame Goesler, standing up from her chair and laughing, as she sang the lines.

“Certainly not to dance at your bridal,” said Lady Glencora.

“Alas! no.  You have forbidden the banns too effectually for that, and I sit here wearing the willow all alone.  Why shouldn’t I be allowed to get married as well as another woman, I wonder?  I think you have been very hard upon me among you.  But sit down, Lady Glencora.  At any rate you come in peace.”

“Certainly in peace, and with much admiration,—­and a great deal of love and affection, and all that kind of thing, if you will only accept it.”

“I shall be too proud, Lady Glencora;—­for the Duke’s sake, if for no other reason.”

“And I have to make my apology.”

“It was made as soon as your carriage stopped at my door with friendly wheels.  Of course I understand.  I can know how terrible it all was to you,—­even though the dear little Plantagenet might not have been in much danger.  Fancy what it would be to disturb the career of a Plantagenet!  I am far too well read in history, I can assure you.”