“Ye are a long time writing this letter,” said the Earl, closing the door; then he saw his wife as she stood in the shadows of the bookcase, huddled together.

For a second there was complete silence; then my lord spoke.

“Why did you not come into the withdrawing-room, madam? I thought you upstairs.”

She answered quickly.

“So I was—till this moment. I came to select a book to distract me, not knowing I was disturbing Mr. Lyndwood.”

Her lie came too glibly, and the readiness of it made Marius wince.

The Earl crossed the room. He looked from his brother to his wife, and then down at the blank sheet of paper and the newly sharpened unstained quill upon the desk.

“What is the matter, Marius?” he asked, with a slight smile.

“Matter, sir?”

The Countess was rigid in her own defence, but Marius interrupted.

“Hush!” he said, almost sternly; then he turned to his brother.

“The Countess Lavinia was my Aspasia,” he said manfully and simply. “You will remember, my lord—she hath come down here to ask me to leave her house. Old memories are ofttimes painful. I will go to London with the dawn.”

The Countess sank heavily into the chair against the wall.

“You are a fool! Oh!” she cried stormily, twisting her fingers. “Oh, fool!”

My lord pressed his handkerchief to his beautiful mouth. He was silent, gazing with dark eyes on Marius, ignoring his wife.

The younger man forced himself into speech again.

“There is no one to blame, sir, is there?” He now smiled, and it maddened the Countess. She could have understood anything but that. Her husband had never been remotely within her reach, and now Marius stepped beyond it. That they should smile!

“I had an intuition of what had happened when I entered the room,” said my lord. “Tragedy on the heels of the ludicrous! Certainly it is no one’s fault, Marius.”

The Countess rose with the fierce intent of dragging their emotions on to a level that she could understand, but for the second time Marius hushed her with a glance and a movement of his hand.

“I met my lady when she was Miss Hilton,” he said firmly, looking at his brother, “and between us was some folly that might have been everything and was nothing—too small a matter to have been mentioned, my lord, had not—we—I—been surprised by this meeting.”

The Earl’s gaze was grave, but curiously tender too. He leant rather heavily against the mantelshelf, and there was a very faint smile on his lips.

“Do not suppose that I do not understand,” he said, and his beautiful voice was soft.

It seemed to the Countess that they both ignored her, that they spoke a language she could not comprehend; that she stood an alien before them.

“Do you understand?” she directly addressed her husband. “Do you understand my position?”

She pushed back the dark hair from her face, and her long brown eyes were bright.

My lord gave her one glance.

“Yes, you are my wife,” he said.

“Since a month ago”—a painful colour beat in her cheeks—“what of my feelings?”

Ardently, yet almost unconsciously, she desired to bring things to an issue, to force these two into action, to make a scene, to have a chance of expressing her own inarticulate passion; so had she wished to bring Marius to a pitch of she knew not what emotion when she came down to the library, knowing him there alone and unprepared.

“What of me?” she cried again.

“I’ faith I know not,” answered my lord. “What of you? ’Tis in your own hands.”

She felt he slighted her as a creature of another world, and the quick red deepened beneath her eyes.

“Nothing to you, this!” She spoke with raised voice, as if she denounced him. “What do you care where my affections lie? What is it to you the name I hold in my heart?”

“My lady!” cried Marius. Then he turned to his brother. “Ye must a little longer listen to me, my lord. It cannot be left to seem that I go to London on the instant because once my lady thought too highly of me.” He held his head proudly, though his lips trembled. “The Countess came to tell me how utterly she had forgotten one Miss Hilton once honoured with some slight acquaintance.”

Lady Lyndwood listened, baffled, incredulous; the delicate gallantry of the speech had for her no meaning. She swept aside the fine words he used for her defence.

“I came to you to say I had not forgotten,” she said passionately.

Still she did not get within the guard of either.

“’Tis hardly so long ago, madam,” answered the Earl, “and I dare swear that you remember very well. It makes no difference to what Marius has said, and to what I can for myself see and understand.”

The Countess came round the table.

“I think ye seek to put me off,” she cried.

Rose Lyndwood straightened himself against the mantelshelf.

“And you, madam,” he demanded, “what do you seek to make of this matter? You speak too late. This should have come some months ago, then you had not found me deaf.” And he smiled bitterly.

The Countess twisted her hands together and pressed them on her bosom.

She felt that she had been cheated of everything—of her youth, her freedom, her lover, her husband, even of the right to complain.

“You can say that now,” she answered hoarsely. “Now it is too late, as you say, too late.” She loosened her hands and grasped the edge of the table. “But I think I had stood a poor chance. You wanted the money.”

The Earl made a little movement, and the candle-light on his pink silk shimmered.

She spoke again, in a tone of rage and deliberate insult.

“’Tis easy now for you to ignore me, to preach at me, for you have the money—my father’s money—your price.”

Even as the words left her lips, she knew they were what he would never forgive, and through her wrath she felt a touch of fear. Half-shrinking, she glanced at Marius.

He uttered a sound under his breath, and turned his back on her, moving towards the window.

“Your father’s money,” said Lord Lyndwood quietly, looking at her with dangerous eyes, “bought what your father most desired, and what I thought you also desired, since ye did not protest. It is a thing done with.”

“It is a thing but begun,” she answered fiercely. “Bought! Do ye care to use that word?”

The Earl’s breath came hurriedly. The passion she had longed to evoke was bared now in his face and voice.

“Mr. Hilton’s daughter had not received my name as a gift,” he said. “What should we wed for with you save our convenience?”

At the scorn in his gaze she shrank.

“We sink low enough when we barter with traders,” continued my lord, “and when we mate with them. But it is not a degradation you can estimate, nor, by God, is there any obligation—even if your father’s money had been ten times as much. You are my wife.”

She hated him. But she could not answer. Her lips were dry, and her limbs trembled as she caught herself back against the bookcase.

Rose Lyndwood came forward, dominating the room.

“This is the last time, madam, we bandy words upon this or any other subject. I do not love dissension in my house. You will remember this. I am usually obeyed.”

She looked at Marius. As she read it, here was his chance. He could turn on his brother now. Surely he would dignify her by a champion, redeem the scene by a challenge, a duel.

But he remained with his back to her, looking out into the darkness.

“Mr. Lyndwood!” she said unsteadily.

There was no answer. My lord crossed to the door and opened it.

“Will you leave us th............