WRECKED IN PORT.
A SERIAL STORY BY THE AUTHOR OF "BLACK SHEEP"
BOOK II. CHAPTER IV.

He loves me; he loves me not.

THE interest which Walter Joyce had
awakened in Lady Caroline Mansergh on
the night of the dinner party, by no means
died out, or even waned. Flirtation is
certainly not an exceptional amusement in
the dead level of dreary occupations which
a country-house life affords, but this word-
pastime was certainly not flirtation. The
notion of flirting with her brother's secretary,
which would have been exceedingly
comic to the rest of the world, and afforded
a vast deal of amusement to the kindly
noodle portion of the Westhope society,
did not strike Lady Caroline at all in a
ridiculous light; but to flirt with Walter
Joyce she knew would be impossible.
The sighing and looking, the giving and
taking, the fetching and carrying, and
all the poodle tricks which are played by
the best style of male flirts, in the best
style of society, she knew would be impossible
to him; and though she had had
long practice in the art, and had derived
no little amusement from it, she felt it
would be repulsive to her to try her hand
on such a subject. If not a desire for
flirtation, what was it that irresistibly impelled
her to seek this man's society; that
made her start and thrill at the unexpected
sound of his voice; that enabled
her to picture to herself so vividly certain
expressions in his eyes, gestures of his
hands, to recal phrases of his conversation?
tion? Was it real passion? Had love
come to her at last? Was this the man
with whom her fate was to be for ever
bound up? Lady Caroline half smiled as
she contemplated this tremendous possibility.
It was too wild, too romantic, this
story of the Lord of Burleigh, with the
sexes reversed, and with herself for heroine;
the man was different from those
with whom her life had been passed, had
brains and courage to use them, did not
think the society thoughts nor speak the
society language, and was not conformable
in any way to the society pattern. That
was what it meant. That was the source
of the strange interest she felt in him—interest
which was friendly and appreciative,
but nothing further.

Nothing further. That was why she
had manoeuvred, carefully, skilfully, and
with perfect feminine tact, never ceasing
until the object was accomplished, that it
was understood that Mr. Joyce joined the
family circle always after dinner, whether
there were visitors or not; that was why
she invariably found opportunities to have
him seated by her side, or standing by her,
turning over the pages of her music, while
Lord Hetherington, with a dexterity only
acquired by long practice, held up the
newspaper before him, being at the time
sound asleep, and her ladyship, scorning
concealment, slumbered placidly in the
garish light of the moderator lamp.
Nothing further. That was why Lady Caroline
had suddenly taken to pedestrian exercise,
wanted an escort occasionally to the village,
and hated the idea of being followed
about in the country by a footman; found
she had quite forgotten that charming
Shakespeare, and determined to read his
dear plays again, and would not trouble
Mr. Joyce to send those heavy big volumes
from the library, but would come in and
read them there occasionally, if he was
quite sure she did not disturb him. The
jealous tortures endured by the valiant