"Mr. Romanie's, I suppose?" he said, with a
sneer.

"Mr. Romaine is a gentleman, and a true
friend to me," she answered, with trembling
voice. "He would not expose me in this way."

"You had better go with him in a cab, I
suppose," said he. "Don't talk to me about him.
I don't want it. I have made up my mind, and
I have told you so, and I give no reasons.
There!"

"No wonder you don't like to talk of him,"
she went on, quite flaming with excitement;
"you are brave to me, but I know you are in
terror of him."

Fermor turned white. This allusion was but
an accident, but it seemed as though she had
heard about that night, and was taunting him.
He started up, and pointed to the door. "After
this," he said, almost choking, "leave me. Now
we understand each other. Go away, I say. I
shall end this in some way and before long, too.
It's all over now."

He did not know what he was saying or what
he was doing. She was a little scared, because
not understanding the real reason of his fury,
and let the man go without a word about the
carriage. But when she was alone, the original
defiance returned, aud, according to the old
formula, emphasised with a little fierce stamp,
"if she was to die for it" she would not yield.

It was now past six o'clock. Fermor was still
raging in his study. He heard voices in the
hall, and burst out: "What is this? What is
this noise?" It was another "man" with a
message from Madame Adelaide's. The grand
dress would be home at eight, punctually; it
might be depended on. There were some alterations;
but a dozen hands were working on it
simultaneously, like slaters on a roof. Fermor
retreated into his study, trembling, but with a
grim idea in his head.

At Lady Laura's house the moment was drawing
on. By incredible exertion everything had been
got ready, and the "men" happily out of the house.
The last touches had been given, and we know
by whom. Indeed, the first and middle, as well
as the last touches, had all come from the same
hand. Tired, fagged, but dressed in her finery
(the first "down," too, for Laura junior and
Blanche were always late), she was in the field,
walking round her rooms, now clear, clean, fresh,
and lighted. Here, in the drawing-room, was that
pretty stage at one end, and the flowers, and the
lights, and the chairs set in order, for a good
view of the show; and here, below, was the
supper set out, under the same superintendence,
with a small corps of select and steady waiters,
who were known to be equal to more work, at
the same tariff, than their fellows. The women
were waiting for their cloaks (she had even found
a moment to write the "numbers" on old visiting
cards)—in fact, all was ready. She went up
again after this final survey, and stood at the fire
alone in her rooms, trying to warm her weary
foot upon the fender. As she looked down on
that weary foot, and then looked into the coals,
perhaps she saw there, in the little fiery crags
and gullies, scraps of that weary panorama she
called her life, the course that she had worked
out with weariness and buffeting. Perhaps,
too, she was longing that, just as the little fiery
craters and precipices crumbled down upon one
another, so her life, too, might end at last; and
perhaps she was longing for some final repose—
just as her worn and aching head was then longing
for some physical repose upon a pillow. It
was noted how m those days the people under her
found her softer and less imperious and fretful.

The clock on the chimney-piece had struck.
Every one had been enjoined to be there by nine,
on account of the dramatic part if not before.
The company were about due now. Hark to the
rolling of the carriages! Whatever she had been
thinking of, whether sad or hopeful, she now
withdrew the weary foot from the fender, and
"recovered" herself. Who would come first?
for there was the thunder of wheels at the gate,
and the quick plunge of horses suddenly checked;
and here was the smile of reception snatched
hurriedly, as it were, from her pocket, and fitted
on. Behind it was, perhaps, a real smile, for
she was thinking of Blanche's or Laura junior's
lovers.

As she took her post at the door (the arrived
were undraping below, and receiving a scrap of
visiting card as a token), the select waiter came
up with a note on a salver. An apology, of
course, which was welcome; for she always left
a margin for such things, and room was sadly
wanted. She thought she knew the hand. It
was from Sir John Westende.

"I never asked him," she said, wondering.
Then she read it with a strange stare, that
mystified the waiter, who was standing by, salver in
hand.

"Dear Lady Laura,—My duty to my ward,
Lord Spendlesham, has compelled me to take a
course I much regret. For many reasons I could
not approve of the alliance he was about making,
but an affair that took place some years ago, and
in which one of your family was concerned an
affair, too, which I only discovered by an
accident renders the thing, as you will admit, wholly
out of the question. He is in full possession of
all the details—quite takes the view that I take,
and is now down at my house in the country.
But, with a generosity which does him honour,
he has proposed to let you take the business of
breaking the affair off, on yourself. And if you
think fit to adopt this course, you will write to
him to-night a letter to that effect. It is a very
painful and unfortunate business altogether, but
you will see, with your usual good sense, that it
was impossible it could go on. I am,
                          "Dear Lady Laura,
                                  "Yours truly,
                                         "JOHN WESTNDE."

Did she utter a sound beyond a sigh, or did