Part 29 (1/2)

”In no other way.”

”You're quite sure?”

”Quite, and I'm very sorry you asked me the question. I tried hard to prevent you.”

”You've succeeded admirably,” he said, laughing. ”I was afraid you did care.”

He held out his hand, and she took it, saying with a little constraint in her manner:

”You're certainly frank.”

He was pleased to see that she was only piqued; the speech had been unfortunate; but Lady Isabelle had plenty of common sense, and she realised that his nave confession had cleared the atmosphere, and made social intercourse possible.

He made another attempt to interest her in general conversation, this time succeeding admirably. And so an hour slipped by unnoticed, until the stern voice of the Dowager recalled them to the realities of life.

”Isabelle,” she said coldly, ”you are surely forgetting your duty to our hostess, and to me also, it seems.”

”I'm coming, mamma,” she replied, and left him with a quiet ”Good-night.”

Stanley felt immensely relieved. That was over; Lady Isabelle and he understood each other now, and his path was clear for--was it to be matrimony after all? He told himself he was a weak fool--that Miss Fitzgerald cared nothing for him; would not take him after last night; that he was under no real obligation and that he was a sentimental idiot--yet, he must see her--for his own sake--to justify himself--to---- He resolutely shut his eyes to the future, and went in search of the lady in question.

Ten minutes later, Belle and he were alone in the most favourable place in the house for a tete-a-tete, a curious old corner, the two sides of which were converted into a capacious seat to which there was but one approach, screened by a heavy curtain on one side and a suit of armour on the other--safe from all observers.

”What a quaint old house this is!” he said. ”We might almost suppose we were back in the sixteenth century.”

”Yes,” she replied dreamily. ”We're out of place in these surroundings.”

She was in a strange mood this evening, sad and thoughtful, yet lacking the repose which should have accompanied reverie. It was the only time that the Secretary had ever seen her nervous or _distraite_.

”What have you been doing all day?” he asked, hoping to lead the conversation to some more cheerful subject.

”Trying to forget myself,” she replied.

”Surely it would be a pleasure to remember yourself, I should think.”

”Should you? I fear not.”

”Your ears must have burned this afternoon,” he continued, unheeding her comment. ”Pleasant things were being said about you.”

”Did you say them?”

”Of course I said them, I always do; but I was referring to someone else--to Lady Isabelle.”

”People only patronise me, when they think me unworthy of reproof.”

”How can you say that!” he exclaimed. ”I----” but she silenced him with a gesture.

”You've said it. That's why. I've never had one friend with whom there did not come a day, that he or she threw me over and cast my failings in my face. I'd believed it was different with you, I believed you trusted me; that you'd have trusted me through good and evil report--but no, you're like the rest. Society points its finger at me, and you accept its verdict, and you're right. You, secure in your social position, powerful, influential, you shall determine what is right and what is wrong, and I,--I must accept it without a murmur--I'm only a woman without a friend.”