"She did--she did. But wait a bit, my boy. I'll hang diamonds and pearls round that girl's neck, and stick tiaras in her hair, and bracelets on her arms, till I make even the princesses envious--that I will. But now, look here, I'm glad we've come to an understanding.

You'll dine with me at my club, Moorpark? Don't say no."

"With pleasure, if you will dine with me."

"Done. Where do you hang out?"

"Four hundred and four, Berkeley Square."

"Say Monday for me, at the Imperial--seven sharp; and we'll settle when I come to _you_."

"At seven on Monday," said Lord Henry, "I will be there."

"And now I must be off back to town. Good-bye, G.o.d bless you, Moorpark.

One word first: you'll like to do it handsome, of course, in presents, and that sort of thing."

"Indeed I shall not be ungenerous as soon as I know her tastes."

"Then look here, Moorpark, these things cost money."

"a.s.suredly."

"Then can I do anything for you? A few thousands on your simple note of hand? Only say the word. No dealing--no interest. Just a simple loan.

How much?"

"My dear Elbraham," said Lord Henry, "you are very kind; but I have a handsome balance at my bank. I am a man of very simple tastes, and I have never lived half up to my income."

"Then you must be worth a pot," exclaimed Elbraham. "I mean, you are really rich."

"Well, I suppose I am," said Lord Henry, smiling; "but I care very little for money, I a.s.sure you."

"That'll do," exclaimed Elbraham, crushing the other's hand once more.

"Good-bye. Monday."

By this time they had reached the spot where their carriages were waiting--Elbraham's a phaeton, with a magnificent pair of bays, whose sides were flecked with the foam they had formed in champing their bits; Lord Henry's a neat little brougham drawn by a handsome roan.

Then there was a wave of the hand, and Elbraham took his whip, the bays starting off at a rapid trot, while, having let himself into his brougham, Lord Henry gave the word "Home," and leaned back with the tears in his eyes to think how soon he was finding consolation for the coldness with which he had been treated by Gertrude Millet. Then he felt slightly uneasy, for though he had never spoken to Lady Millet, his visits had been suggestive, and he could not help asking himself what her ladyship would say.

But that soon pa.s.sed off, as he began to glide into a delightful day-dream about beautiful Marie, and to think how strange it was that, at his age, he should have fallen fairly and honestly in love with an innocent, heart-whole, unspoiled girl.

"Yes, so different to Gertrude Millet," he said to himself. "She loved that young Huish, I am sure."

Volume 2, Chapter III.

LADY MILLET'S CHOICE.

Rich men are not always to be congratulated, especially if they are good-looking and weak. Frank Morrison was both, and in early days after her wedding Renee found that a loveless marriage was not all bliss.

But she had marked out her own course, and, with the hopefulness of youth, she often sat alone, thinking that she would win her husband entirely to herself, and that when he fully saw her devotion he would give up acquaintances whom he must have known before they were wed.

One Sunday evening, and she was seated waiting, when she heard a well-known step upon the stairs.

It was quite dinner-time, and she was waiting, dressed, for her husband's return, looking sad, but very sweet and self-possessed; and as he entered the room she ran to meet him, put her arms round his neck and kissed him on lips that had been caressing others not an hour before.

"Ah, Renee," he said quietly, "waiting dinner? So sorry, little woman.

I could not get near a telegraph office, or I would have sent and told you."

"I have not waited long, Frank," she said cheerfully. "I am so glad you have come back."

"But that is not what I meant, dear," he replied. "I am only returned to dress. I dine out."

"Dine out, Frank?" she said, trying hard not to seem troubled.

"Yes--obliged to. Two or three fellows at the club. Couldn't refuse.

You will excuse me to-night, little one?"

"Oh yes, Frank," she said quickly, "if you must go, dear. I will not say I am not disappointed; but if you must go--"

"Yes, I must, really," he said. "Don't fidget, and don't wait up.

There may be a rubber of whist afterwards, and I shall be late."

"How easy it is to lie and deceive!" thought Renee, as, with the same calm, placid smile, she listened to her husband's excuses. "You are going, Frank, to that handsome, fashionable-looking woman? You will dine with her, and spend the evening at her house, while I, with breaking heart, sit here alone, mad almost with jealousy I dare not show."

Thoughts like these flitted through her mind as she put up her face and kissed him before quietly ringing the bell for her dinner to be served, and going down to the solitary meal.

Her husband came in for a moment to say good-bye, cheerfully, and then she was alone.

It was a hard and a bitter task, but she fulfilled it, sitting there calmly, and partaking of her solitary dinner. It was for his sake, she said, for no servant must dream that they were not happy; all must go on as usual, and some day he would come back repentant to her forgiving arms, won by her patience and long-suffering.

She sat thinking this over and over again later in the drawing-room with a sad smile upon her lips, pitying, but telling herself that she could be strong enough to fulfil her self-imposed task. Not one word of reproach should be his, only tenderness and kindness always. She was his wife, and would forgive; yes, had already forgiven, and granted him a dispensation for the sins against her that he might commit.

"Poor Frank, he never loved me as he thought he did; but I shall win him yet," she murmured; and then started, for she fancied that she heard a door close.

She saw nothing, though, and paid little heed, for if it was, it might easily be one of the servants in the farther drawing-room, one of the set of three, the third being quite a small boudoir, where she was seated, while the others were only half lit.

She leaned back in her low chair dreaming of the happy days to come, when her husband would return to her, and then her thoughts glided off to Gertrude and her projected marriage.

"I wonder whether I shall have a child," she thought, "and if so, whether I shall be, in time to come, as mamma is. Poor Gerty! it seems very shocking that she, too, while caring for another, should be almost forced to accept the addresses of an old man like Lord Henry Moorpark.

For that's what mamma means," she said half aloud.

Then she sat dreaming on and wondering whether some reports she had heard about John Huish were true--reports of a very dishonourable nature, but which she had carefully hidden from her sister.

"It may be all scandal," she murmured; "but I am getting hard now--so soon! ah, so soon! Where there is smoke, they say, there is fire. Poor Gerty! Better Lord Henry--who seems to love her--than that she should waste her days on a worthless man. And yet I liked John Huish. Uncle Robert likes him, too; and I never knew him wrong, in spite of his retired life."

But it would be strange, she thought, if both she and her sister should have set the affections of their young hearts upon men who upon being tried proved to be unworthy of trust. "Poor Gerty!--poor me!" she said, half laughing. "It is a strange world, and perhaps, after all, our parents are right in choosing our partners for life."

Then she started once more, for she knew that she was not alone, and on turning, there, in evening dress, his crush hat in his hand, and looking calm, handsome, and sardonic enough for an incarnation of the spirit of evil himself, stood Major Malpas.

"Nervous, Mrs Morrison? Good-evening. Did you not hear me announced?

No? Your carpets are so soft."