The heavy coach rolled cumbrously over the cobbled streets, and the fitful flame of the lamp that lit the handsome interior showed the wan, troubled face of Susannah Chressham, colourless between the folds of bright hair, and the clouded countenance of Captain Lyndwood who sat opposite to her, wrapped in what seemed a passionate and seething silence.

She, sitting up, and gathering her mantle together over her low blue dress with a mechanical gesture, was the first to speak.

“I regret I could not find Selina again,” she said. “I was sorry to leave without speaking to her—” She broke off; Marius was not in her confidence, nor indeed much in her thoughts, and she paused, wondering what she should reveal and what keep back.

He half startled and half relieved her by his abrupt answer.

“It was concerning that paragraph in the Gazette you wished to see Rose, was it not?”

“How did you imagine it?” she queried faintly.

“The Countess informed me.”

This remark brought Miss Chressham to glance at him closely and to notice that he was flushed and frowning, obviously ill at ease and striving for control.

“The Countess informed you!” she echoed.

He beat his foot impatiently on the floor of the coach.

“She had seen it, of course. She concluded you would wish to prevent a meeting between Rose and Sir Francis.” He checked himself, then added in a lower tone, “She has no doubt it is true.”

Miss Chressham coloured in sheer anger.

“She dared to put it so to you!” The sad grey eyes darkened with wrathful scorn. “Did she wish to enlist you as her champion?”

“Is it surprising that she was angry?” he answered defiantly. “If it be true——”

“It is true and she knows it,” broke in Miss Chressham. “She hath good cause to know it. Selina wrote to my lord, and she—this woman—stole her letter and composed, from that and what she further knew or imagined, this paragraph in the Gazette.”

“The Countess!” cried Marius. “The Countess—that paragraph! Susannah, I do not believe it!”

Miss Chressham answered with weary passion.

“Believe it or no, it is true, true—and it was an action of a meanness, a vulgarity——”

“I do not credit it,” he interrupted vehemently. “After what she said to me.”

Susannah gave him a swift look.

“She had no right to speak to you.”

The dusky blood flooded his agitated, handsome face.

“Hath she no wrongs?” he asked desperately. “How have we behaved to her, any of us? And it has always been her money. Rose and Miss Boyle are in the wrong.”

“I was well advised in not making you my confidant sooner, if this is how you take it,” cried Miss Chressham angrily. “Oh, you understand none of it, none; but at least be silent, do not defend the Countess Lavinia to me.”

“How you hate her,” he answered, in a breathless way.

Susannah’s fair white hand made a gesture as if she put aside the semblance of something hideous.

“I do not care to talk of her. This is the first time that my speech has meddled in my lord’s affairs”—she drew herself together, as if her mental effort braced her body; “but it becomes no less than my duty now, Marius, to bid you take care.”

Marius leant forward and caught hold of the red silk window blind.

“Of what?” he asked hoarsely.

His obvious unease and agitation did not reassure Susannah.

“Of the Countess Lavinia,” she answered. “Do you think Rose will endure it? Whatever he is, he is not that manner of man.” Her voice held an odd note of pride.

Marius moistened his lips.

“Has he said anything?”

“To me, this evening, he warned me. I think you had better leave for Paris.”

“Because of the Countess Lavinia?” Marius spoke unsteadily.

Something in his troubled, distracted bearing touched her; a kinder look came into her passionate eyes.

“Oh, Marius, there was the old wretched mistake; Rose must remember it. You wooed her first, after all; well, when he sees you together—you must respect his pride.”

Marius drew back against the leather cushions and unaccountably laughed.

“The Countess Lavinia,” he said wildly, “I loathe her.”

He clenched his hand and brought it down with vehement force on the seat beside him.

“Then you will go away?” Susannah spoke softly.

“No, I cannot do that.” The lace and diamonds at his throat heaved with his unequal breathing, and his lips quivered.

“The Countess means to do us all a mischief,” said Susannah, faint and shuddering with the effort of putting these things into words. “Cannot you see it, Marius, that she will find in this fashion her amusement and her revenge? Are you going to lend yourself to it? Go away.”

He looked up with brilliant eyes.

“I shall stay,” he answered passionately; “but not because of the Countess.”

“Ah, you think yourself very strong and courageous,” returned Miss Chressham wearily, “but she is, in her way, a clever woman.”

“Do not talk of her,” cried Marius roughly.

Susannah made no reply.

A little longer and the coach jolted to a standstill.

Miss Chressham sprang up with a nervous little exclamation; the heavy door was opened on to the dark silent street and the summer fragrance, that clung even about the Haymarket with a sweet suggestion of things stirring, growing, breathing, animals, flowers and men, beneath the rising moon.

They went into the house; the coach swung off up the street and the delicate stillness fell again.

Marius slowly closed the door, replaced the key in his pocket and flung off his domino. The wide hall was lit by one lamp that cast a pale glow and heavy shadows. Miss Chressham stood still a moment, gazing before her in an absorbed fashion.

“Can I speak to you a while?” asked Marius on a rebellious breath.

She forced herself to listen, to comprehend.

“Of course,” she thrust aside her thoughts. “It must be still early—maybe my lady is up. Let us go into the withdrawing-room.”

They discovered that it was not yet midnight, but the Countess Agatha was in bed, and Susannah’s woman in charge. Miss Chressham ordered candles beyond the few left burning, and wine and cakes.

“I tasted nothing at the mask,” she said, smiling to cover her distraction, “and I vow I am quite hungry.”

Marius, struggling with some deep and tumultuous feeling, heeded nothing, but paced to and fro the gay and beautiful chamber until the servant had left them.

The window stood open on the mute city and winking stars, a beau-pot of white roses on the work-table gave forth a lingering and exquisite perfume; Miss Chressham, near as pale as they, and drooping, as if with fatigue, had seated herself on a low brocade settee; her rich and glittering hair rolled in full curls over her dark domino, rounded throat and turquoise gown; beside her lay her mask and her fan.

“What did you wish to say, Marius?” she asked.

He poured her out a glass of the delicate white wine; she thanked him with a smile and drank it. There was still that absent look in her deep eyes that showed her thoughts were not at all absorbed with Marius; but he did not notice it, being too completely engrossed in his own passions.

“You think that I have behaved unworthily,” he said, moving towards the window.

Susannah roused herself with a half sigh; it was like Marius to take everything heavily. She looked at him kindly; he leant against the window frame and gazed out at the night; a persistent breeze ruffled the pomaded curls on his forehead and the lace at his throat.

“I had no right to speak to you, of anything,” she answered. “Only Rose mentioned it and I ventured. Marius, the Countess is not to be trusted.”

He answered in a muffled voice.

“Do you think Rose has been impeccable?”

Had he had her in view he could not have failed to mark the swift expression of anguish that passed over her face; but her settee had its back to the window, and though he had turned his head towards the room he could see only her bent neck and shining curls.

“My lord made this mad marriage for your sake,” she said. “At the time you did not consider it strange or igno............