“I think it is monstrous strange that Marius could not stay,” remarked the Countess Agatha, gathering round her the swansdown and gold wrap. “There is room enough here, and I vow it is more comfortable than forlorn chambers in Westminster.”

“He hath been considering this move for some time,” answered Miss Chressham quietly. “He hath, I think, an idea of independence. It is a pity he will not go abroad again.”

“To leave us so suddenly!” continued the Countess heedlessly. “But last night I thought he seemed to me strange when he took you to the masque.”

“Perhaps, after all, it is better for him,” said Susannah gently; and moved so that the candle-light did not fall over her face.

“I thought Rose might have come today,” commented my lady, with the air of a grievance, “but I swear he has not been over-attentive of late.”

Miss Chressham sighed. She could no more have confided in her aunt than in a child. My lord’s troubles were not to be helped by his mother; yet one matter his cousin brought herself to mention, since it must be faced sooner or later.

“Rose is too extravagant. I think it begins to weigh with him.”

The Countess Agatha was drawing on her fine silk gloves.

“Well, my dear,” she smiled sweetly, “what did he marry that woman for? Not to stint himself.”

“Stint himself!” Miss Chressham smiled too, but sadly. “His entertainments cost thousands, and his losses at cards—I do not care to think of them. No fortune could stand it, and Mr. Hilton, I hear, has lost money in Holland.”

“And what of Selina Boyle?” asked the Countess Agatha, with her trick of changing the subject at random, as if she never listened to what was said to her. “And that odious stuff in the Gazette? I hope you told her that it was too foolish to be noticed, and that I laughed at it; but, of course, I have no doubt it is true, nor that that impossible Lavinia wrote it.”

“I suppose it can be lived down,” answered Susannah. “But Sir Francis and Mr. Boyle are furious.”

“Do you think ’twill come to a duel with Rose?” asked the Countess vaguely.

“No—oh, no.” Miss Chressham was positive.

“But ’tis infatuation for her?”

“Yes.”

“And she?” The Countess Agatha’s soft eyes were sympathetic.

Miss Chressham gave a painful little laugh.

“I am afraid that she—is in love.”

“And that wretched creature comes between them!” sighed the elder lady. “It is too provoking Selina could not have had the money. She is quite charming, and I always liked her. But are you sure of Rose?” she asked suddenly. “There have been so many!”

Miss Chressham coloured.

“What are we talking of? It is all very foolish, and I vow you will be late, Aunt Agatha.”

The Countess glanced at the clock.

“You are certain you will not accompany me, Susannah?”

“Indeed, I am too tired. And now my lord is waiting.”

“Marius may come this evening. There are many of his things here. Do you see him, then say I blame him for this desertion.”

With that the Countess kissed her niece and left the room in a flutter of golden embroideries. She was as gay, in her delicate lady’s way, as Rose, and as extravagant. Susannah sometimes wondered what the dowager Lady Lyndwood would do if the money failed, and she thought she could guess. The Countess had the light way of taking things that would allow her to marry again, and still remain true to the one passion and tragedy of her life—the love and death of the Earl.

Miss Chressham went to the window and watched the Countess, by the light of the link-boys’ torches, being handed into the coach by Lord Willouby, who had been waiting for her patiently in the great empty drawing-room below.

Susannah saw them drive off, then let the curtains fall. She felt sad yet excited at a tension not to be explained. Everything had ended more quietly than she could have expected, yet she felt as if on the verge of great events.

Rose had met Sir Francis, and nothing had happened. The Gazette scandal appeared to have blown over; there had been no word from Selina Boyle since last night.

Marius had taken his answer quietly. She was sorry he had left them, frankly regretting his company, but she respected his motives, one of which she suspected to be the desire to avoid the Countess Lavinia, who could no longer, with any shadow of a decent excuse, seek him out for her amusement.

Poor Marius! Susannah thought of him with tenderness. He had behaved very well; he had finer stuff in him than had Rose, but——

Her reflections touched the state of the Earl’s fortunes. She told herself that it must be this casting a gloom over her spirits.

He would say so little, and that little a sneer, or mocking. He acted on such sudden desperate impulses, as in the matter of his marriage. Never had he been frank with her, and she, sensitive to his reserve, had equally never been able to bring herself to probe into his affairs. She knew that he must be entangled in debt. She feared a sudden downfall of his fortunes, but she knew—with certainty—nothing.

She sat down at the spinet and played a little madrigal by Orlando Gibbons that was associated with her earliest childhood. When her fingers fell still her hands dropped into her lap, and she sat motionless, staring across the gorgeous chamber.

The mirror behind her reflected her slender figure in the tight lilac silk, the loops of soft brown hair falling over the muslin fichu and the faint coloured keys of the spinet.

Her reverie was disturbed by the entry of my lady’s black page; she thought he came to announce Marius, and her heart fluttered.

But it was a lady who desired to be admitted. She said she came from Lyndwood House, and the page thought her the maid of the younger Countess.

Susannah paled with anger and distaste. What impertinence was this on the part of the odious Honoria Pryse?

“My lady is at Ranelagh,” she said. “I suppose this person hath come to see her.”

“No, madam; she asked for you.”

A swift stab of premonitory disaster prevented Miss Chressham from sending the message that was at first on her lips—a curt refusal to see the Countess Lavinia’s maid. Surely something desperate must have occurred before Honoria Pryse would seek her out; but the boy might be mistaken.

“Bring her to me,” she commanded briefly.

Then in the moment that she waited a sudden sense of helplessness, of loneliness, overcame Susannah Chressham. Something was going to happen—something perhaps had happened—to Rose, and she was here alone to meet it, to decide.

But when the door again opened she stood braced to face the person she had expected—Lady Lyndwood’s maid.

Honoria Pryse entered softly. She was simply attired in a shade of dull purple that set off the rich gold colour of her hair; a chip straw shaded her face, and she wore a dark cloak; her manner and bearing was absolutely composed and quiet. She dropped an indifferent curtsey, and waited until the black boy had left them, summing up the while with keen eyes Miss Chressham, who kept her place at the spinet, and spoke as soon as they were alone.

“You have come to see me?” she inquired, with a coldness in great contrast to her usual manner.

“Yes, madam.”

“I cannot conceive on what subject.”

Honoria smiled.

“Do you know me, Miss Chressham? I am the Countess’s woman, and have been with her since she was a child.”

“I remember you very well,” answered Susannah. “Will you please tell me your errand?”

Honoria, still completely at her ease, came further into the room.

“I expect, madam, you will be surprised that I come to you, but I believe you will be interested in what I have to say, and I have always known that you were a sensible, cool-headed lady.”

This was said gravely, without a hint of flattery. Susannah was impressed with a sense of something weighty behind the words—the image of Selina, of Rose, flashed through her mind. What had happened?

“Sit down,” she said, controlling herself, “and tell me your errand.”

Honoria calmly seated herself on one of the gilt chairs, and clasped............