And as he argued, Sir Robert remembered that a letter lay waiting for him in his suite at the Hotel. It had arrived earlier in the evening, and having glanced at the handwriting he left it lying on the table unopened. It was yet another letter from his mother, and now it seemed to him that it was lying in wait for his return, somehow infinitely menacing in its very inefficacy.

Insistently the memory of his last interview with his mother came flooding back to him. He could remember every word, every inclination, every movement – the way the firelight had flickered on her pale face, the silent solemnity of the snow lying outside the windows of Cheveron, masking the familiar outlines of the landscape, but making it almost unbelievably beautiful.

‘So you are going to Monte Carlo?’ his mother had said, and he knew by the tone of her voice that she did not approve.

‘Yes, to Monte Carlo,’ he repeated. ‘It will be lovely at this time of the year. I wonder you never decide to go south, Mother. It is extremely good for one’s health.’

‘I have no doubt of it,’ Lady Stanford replied, ‘but I have many duties and responsibilities which keep me here, Robert.’

There was no mistaking the inference in her voice, and her son smiled not too pleasantly in reply.

Then I hope you will also discharge mine for me, dear Mother.’

‘If I could do so, I would,’ Lady Stanford replied, ‘but unfortunately I am only a woman. You are the owner of this estate, Robert. You have inherited the proud position which your father held before you. You are the head of the family and the Stanfords have always been true to their traditions.’

Sir Robert had crossed the room to stand looking out on to the snow-covered lawns. Behind him there was silence for several minutes and then at last his mother, in a voice which seemed almost strangled in her throat, asked,

‘That – that woman – does she go with you?’

Sir Robert turned to face her.

‘I believe Lady Violet Featherstone – if that is to whom you refer – will be at her Villa in Monte Carlo.’

‘Oh, Robert, how can you go there with her? Can you not understand that she is ruining you, utterly ruining you?’

Sir Robert sauntered back to the fireplace.

‘In what way?’ he asked. ‘Financially, intellectually, physically? No! I am of course well aware of the correct answer. Socially – that is what you mean, isn’t it, Mother?’

In answer Lady Stanford held a black-edged handkerchief to her eyes. There was something in her tears, in her very helplessness which enraged her son so that he desired to hurt her still further.