"No?" says Miss Beauchamp, sweetly. "Perhaps you are right. As a rule,"--with an admiring glance, so deftly thrown as to make one regret it should be so utterly flung away,--"you always are. It may be only natural spirits, but if so,"--blandly,--"don't you think she has a great deal of natural spirits?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," says Sir Guy. As he answers he looks at her, and tells himself he hates all her pink and white fairness, her dull brown locks, her duller eyes, and more, _much_ more than all, her large and fleshy nose. "Has she?" he says, in a tone that augurs ill for any one who may have the hardihood to carry on the conversation.

"I think she has," says Florence, innocently, a little touch of doggedness running beneath the innocency. "But, oh, Guy, is that Aunt Anne's favorite cup? the Dresden she so much prizes? I know it cost any amount of money. Who broke it?"

"I did," returns Guy, shortly, unblushingly, and moving away from her, quits the room.

Going up the staircase he pauses idly at a window that overlooks the avenue to watch Archibald disappearing up the drive in the dog-cart.

Even as he watches him, vaguely, and without the least interest in his movements,--his entire thoughts being preoccupied with another object,--lo! that object emerges from under the lime-trees, and makes a light gesture that brings Chesney to a full stop.

Throwing the reins to the groom, he springs to the ground, and for some time the two cousins converse earnestly. Then Guy, who is now regarding them with eager attention, sees Chesney help Lilian into the trap, take his seat beside her and drive away up the avenue, past the huge laurustinus, under the elms, on out of sight.

A slight pang shoots across Guy's heart. Where are they going, these two? "I shall never return:"--her foolish words, that he so honestly considers foolish, come back to him now clearly, and with a strange persistency that troubles him, repeat themselves over again.

Chesney is going to London, but where is Lilian going? The child's lovely, angry face rises up before him, full of a keen reproach. What was she saying to Archibald just now, in that quick vehement fashion of hers? was she upbraiding her guardian, or was she----? If Chesney had asked her then to take any immediate steps toward the fulfilling of her threat, would she, would she----?

Bah! he draws himself up with a shiver, and smiles contemptuously at the absurdity of his own fears, a.s.suring himself she will certainly be home to dinner.

But dinner comes, and yet no Lilian! Lady Chetwoode has been obliged to give in an hour ago to one of her severest headaches, and now lies p.r.o.ne upon her bed, so that Miss Beauchamp and Guy perforce prepare to partake of that meal alone.

Florence is resplendent in cream-color and blue, which doesn't suit her in the least, though it is a pretty gown, one of the prettiest in her wardrobe, and has been donned by her to-night for Guy's special delectation, finding a _tete-a-tete_ upon the cards.

Chetwoode regards her with feverish anxiety as she enters the drawing-room, hoping to hear some mention made of the absent Lilian; but in this hope he is disappointed. She might never have been a guest at Chetwoode, so little notice does Miss Beauchamp take of her non-appearance.

She says something amiable about "Aunt Anne's" headache, suggests a new pill as an unfailing cure for "that sort of thing," and then eats her dinner placidly, quietly, and, with a careful kindness that not one of the dishes shall feel slighted by her preference for another, patronizes all alike, without missing any. It is indeed a matter for wonder and secret admiration how Miss Beauchamp can so slowly, and with such a total absence of any appearance of gluttony, get through so much in so short a s.p.a.ce of time. She has evidently a perfect talent for concealing any amount of viands without seeming to do so, which, it must be admitted, is a great charm.

To-night I fear Guy scarcely sees the beauty of it! He is conscious of feeling disgust and a very pa.s.sion of impatience. Does she not notice Lilian's absence? Will she never speak of it? A strange fear lest she should express ignorance of his ward's whereabouts ties his own tongue.

But she, she does, she _must_ know, and presently no doubt will tell him.

How much more of that cream is she going to eat? Surely when the servants go she will say something. Now she has nearly done: thank the stars the last bit has disappeared! She is going to lay down her spoon and acknowledge herself satisfied.

"I think, Guy, I will take a little more, _very_ little, please. This new cook seems quite satisfactory," says Florence, in her slow, even, self-congratulatory way.

A naughty exclamation trembles on Sir Guy's lips; by a supreme effort he suppresses it, and gives her the smallest help of the desired cream that decency will permit. After which he motions silently though peremptorily to one of the men to remove _all_ the dishes, lest by any chance his cousin should be tempted to try the cream a third time.

His own dinner has gone away literally untasted. A terrible misgiving is consuming him. Lilian's words are still ringing and surging in his brain,--"I shall never return." He recalls all her hastiness, her impulsive ways, her hot temper. What if, in a moment of pride and rage, she should have really gone with her cousin! If--it is impossible!

ridiculously, utterly impossible! Yet his blood grows cold in spite of his would-be disbelief; a sickening shiver runs through his veins even while he tells himself he is a fool even to imagine such a thing. And yet, where is she?

"I suppose Lilian is at Mabel Steyne's," says Miss Beauchamp, calmly, having demolished the last bit on her plate with a deep sigh.

"Is she?" asks Guy, in a tone half stifled. As he speaks, he stoops as though to pick up an imaginary napkin.

"Your napkin is here," says Florence, in an uncompromising voice: "don't you see it?" pointing to where it rests upon the edge of the table.

"Lilian, then,"--with a scrutinizing glance,--"did not tell you where she was going?"

"No. There is no reason why she should."

"Well, I think there is," with a low, perfectly lady-like, but extremely irritating laugh: "for one thing, her silence has cost you your dinner.

I am sorry I did not relieve your mind by telling you before. But I could not possibly guess her absence could afflict you so severely. She said something this morning about going to see Mabel."

"I dare say," quietly.

The minutes drag. Miss Beauchamp gets through an unlimited quant.i.ty of dried fruit and two particularly fine pears in no time. She is looking longingly at a third, when Guy rises impatiently.

"If she is at Mabel's I suppose I had better go and bring her home," he says, glancing at the clock. "It is a quarter to nine."

"I really do not think you need trouble yourself," speaking somewhat warmly for her: "Mabel is sure to send her home in good time, if she is there!" She says this slowly, meaningly, and marks how he winces and changes color at her words. "Then think how cold the night is!" with a comfortable shiver and a glance at the leaping fire.

"Of course she is at Steynemore," says Guy, hastily.

"I would not be too sure: Lilian's movements are always uncertain: one never quite knows what she is going to do next. Really,"--with a repet.i.tion of her unpleasant laugh,--"when I saw her stepping into the dog-cart with her cousin to-day, I said to myself that I should not at all wonder if----"

"What?" sternly, turning full upon her a pale face and flashing eyes.

Miss Beauchamp's pluck always melts under Guy's anger.

"Nothing," sullenly; "nothing at least that can concern you. I was merely hurrying on in my own mind a marriage that must eventually come off. The idea was absurd, of course, as any woman would prefer a fashionable wedding to all the inconvenience attendant on a runaway match."

"You mean----"

"I mean"--complacently--"Lilian's marriage with her cousin."

"You speak"--biting his lips to maintain his composure--"as though it was all arranged."

"And is it not?" with well-affected surprise. "I should have thought you, as her guardian, would have known all about it. Perhaps I speak prematurely; but one must be blind indeed not to see how matters are between them. Do sit down, Guy: it fidgets one to see you so undecided.

Of course, if Lilian is at Steynemore she is quite safe."

"Still, she may be expecting some one to go for her."

"I think, if so, she would have told you she was going," dryly.

"Tom hates sending his horses out at night," says Guy,--which is a weak remark, Tom Steyne being far too indolent a man to make a point of hating anything.

"Does he?" with calm surprise, and a prolonged scrutiny of her cousin's face. "I fancied him the most careless of men on that particular subject. Before he was married he used to drive over here night after night, and not care in the least how long he kept the wretched animals standing in the cold."

"But that was when he was making love to Mabel. A man in love will commit any crime."

"Oh, no, long before that."

"Perhaps, then, it was when he was making love to you," with a slight smile.

This is a sore point.

"I don't remember that time," says Miss Beauchamp with perfect calmness but a suspicious indrawing of her rather meagre lips. "If some one must go out to-night, Guy, why not send Thomas?"

"Because I prefer going myself," replies he, quietly.

Pa.s.sing through the hall on his way to the door, he catches up a heavy plaid that happens to be lying there, on a side-couch, and, springing into the open trap outside, drives away quickly under the pale cold rays of the moon.