The Countess Agatha laid down her novel and looked across the beautiful room at her niece, who was drawing the white and gold curtains over the twilight prospect of the Haymarket.

“When is Marius going to wait on Rose?” asked the elder lady. “He has been home now two days.”

Susannah Chressham turned quickly.

“Rose is so occupied—since he hath gone into the Ministry, he is seldom at home.”

“It isn’t always service in the Ministry keeps him abroad,” remarked his mother lightly.

“Marius has been to his reception, you know,” said Miss Chressham, “and will call privately tomorrow.”

She came slowly down the centre of the room.

“It is nearly a year since Marius came home before,” she said; she seated herself near the Countess and her pink striped dress rustled against the other lady’s lavender muslins; the room was all white and pale colours, flowers were painted on the walls and Cupids smiled from the ceiling; the furniture was Aubusson, finely carved and of melting hues; the candles were scented and set in crystal sconces; in one corner stood an elegant spinet, and close by Susannah’s gold harp; on a tulip-wood table rested a beau-pot of forget-me-nots, the most vivid thing in the chamber.

“A year ago,” repeated the Countess vaguely; “yes, just before Rose married.”

“I was thinking of Lavinia,” said Miss Chressham quietly; “he has not seen her since.”

The Countess Agatha laughed.

“I expect he has forgotten her, my dear, certainly she has forgotten him.”

“I suppose so; but, just at first, it might be painful for them, and can one forget, like that?”

Miss Chressham took her musing face in her two fair hands and gazed absently at her own lovely reflection in the oval mirror opposite.

“Oh! my dear, you get too deep for me,” the Countess smiled prettily; “it was vastly sad at the time, but now everything moves along quite properly, and Lavinia has behaved very well.”

“She has acquired a manner,” responded Miss Chressham, “and she has been discreet.”

“Which is quite sufficient; but then you never liked her.”

“How could I? No, I dislike her, and her maid.”

“It is quite a pity,” answered the Countess, “for really I can discern no fault in her; of course she was wild at first, and difficult; and, of course, she is only middle-class at heart now, but she is not in any way openly discreditable; indeed, she passes very well for a lady of fashion.”

“That is not what I mean,” said Miss Chressham. “I think there is mischief in her, and mischief in that Honoria Pryse; and I think it may be difficult, with Marius.”

The Countess laughed; a habit with her that did not in the least imply that she was amused.

“I am sure you are wrong, Susannah,” she replied languidly. “Lavinia is merely bent on enjoying herself.”

“Well, I trust her not; she hath a quick sly way of questioning; the last time I saw her she was trying to discover from me what I knew of Selina Boyle.”

“Can you blame her if she is sometimes jealous?” asked the Countess.

Miss Chressham’s foot beat the delicate-hued carpet.

“But Rose has not seen Selina save in public since he married, and ’tis understood that it is to be a match between her and Sir Francis,” she answered impatiently. “And I know not how she can be jealous of one whom she doth not even pretend a regard for.”

“Well, you always thought Rose’s marriage a mistake,” remarked the elder lady placidly; she could not say she did, there was the money, and she had enjoyed it, was enjoying it, vastly.

Miss Chressham suddenly swerved from the subject.

“Selina and her father are coming to town; they have taken a house in Golden Square for the season. Sir Francis is delighted; I suppose they will be married this year.”

The Countess raised her delicate head and looked at the silver-gilt clock.

“Where has Marius gone, my dear; isn’t he late?”

Susannah was well used to reminding her aunt of things that lady knew perfectly well.

“He has gone to attend my Lord Willouby,” she smiled. “And I think he will be back very soon.”

“I recall it,” said the Countess Agatha. “Do you think he will be ordered abroad again?”

“Not to Madrid, I hope; he seems wearied of it to the death, doth he not?”

“Yes,” sighed his mother. “And I want to keep him at home; he spoke of an appointment in Paris, in the suite of my Lord Northcote; I trust he will not go.”

Miss Chressham rose.

“The mantua-maker is coming at six, shall we not go upstairs?”

“Oh, la!” cried my lady, shaking her laces into place; “it should be very modish, should it not, that watered tabby—which minds me that all the best heads have ribbon in the lapels—I wish to order some of a precise red.”

Susannah Chressham smiled, for the Countess Agatha spoke with more animation and decision than she had used when discussing her sons and their affairs.

The two ladies left the room; a few moments after their departure the timepiece struck six, and before the clear chimes had ceased Marius entered—Captain the Honourable Marius Lyndwood of the 2nd Buffs now, of a slightly weightier presence, a slightly quieter manner, otherwise not changed at all by his year in the train of the English ambassador in Spain.

He wore his buff and blue uniform, and his hair was powdered and rolled into stiff military side-curls; he moved with an air of precision that made him look older than he was. Finding the room empty he walked up and down idly a while, then stopped before the spinet and began turning over Susannah’s fragrant music-sheets. One took his fancy, he had been fond of music and not unskilled; this was a piece of Scarlatti, showy, foreign.

He sat down before the keyboard, making a clatter with his sword, and began to play; he laughed to himself at his own mistakes, and commenced whistling the air.

The white door opened and Miss Chressham entered; Marius rose, flushing a little, and both smiled.

“I thought you must have returned,” said Susannah, coming across the room. “Well, what of the Paris appointment?”

“The post has been offered me,” he answered rather gravely. “But my lord says it is as I wish; it can easily be arranged that I stay in London.”

“Are you going?” asked Miss Chressham.

He fixed his eyes on the keys.

“I think so.”

She moved away to the table that held the forget-me-nots and bent over them; then he looked at her, at the long fair curls flowing between her shoulders over her gleaming pink gown, and the slender hand hanging by her side.

“I want to do something worth while, Susannah,” he said quietly “to make a position for myself—this has all been Rose, Rose’s money.”

“I think you had better go,” she answered slowly, “though we miss you very much, Marius.”

He went suddenly pale.

“I want to thank you for writing to me so often,” he said abruptly. “If I go away will you still write to me?”

She faced him, smiling.

“Of course, Marius.”

He sat silent; she noticed his pallor and his serious mouth, and faintly wondered; he had been rather moody since his return.

“Well,” she said, “my lady sent me to see if you were here, that was all; we have the mantua-maker upstairs; but expect us at dinner!” she laughed.

“Can you not stay?” he demanded.

“Not now,” a touch of surprise was in her tone; “indeed I must go.”

Again he made no reply, and she smiled at him and left him.

Marius returned again to Scarlatti, swaying a little to the music, the long lace at his wrists sweeping the ivory keys; and again he was interrupted.

The servant opened the door.