"Was it part of your plan to make my mother wretched also?" This is a slight exaggeration, as Lady Chetwoode has not even been bordering on the "wretched," and is, in fact, up to the present moment totally ignorant of Lilian's absence.

"I certainly did not mean to make dear auntie unhappy," in a faintly-troubled tone. "But I shall tell her all the truth, and ask her pardon, when I get home,--_back_, I mean," with studied correction of the sweet word.

"What is the truth?"

"First, that I broke her lovely cup. And then I shall tell her why I stayed so long at Steynemore."

"And what will that be?"

"You know very well. I shall just say to her, 'Auntie, your son, Sir Guy, behaved so rudely to me this afternoon, I was obliged to leave Chetwoode for a while.' Then she will forgive me."

Sir Guy laughs in spite of himself; and Lilian, could he only have peeped into the deep recesses of the plaid, might also be plainly seen with her pretty lips apart and all her naughty bewitching face dimpling with laughter.

These frivolous symptoms are, however, rapidly and sternly suppressed on both sides.

"I really cannot see what awful crime I have committed to make you so taciturn," she says, presently, with a view to discussing the subject.

"I merely went for a drive with my cousin, as he should pa.s.s Steynemore on his way to the station."

"Perhaps that was just what made my misery," softly.

"What! my going for a short drive with Archie? Really, Sir Guy, you will soon be taken as a model of propriety. Poor old Archie! I am afraid I shan't be able to make you miserable in that way again for a very long time. How I wish those tiresome lawyers would let him alone!"

"Ask them to surrender him," says Guy, irritably.

"I would,"--cheerfully,--"if I thought it would do the least good. But I know they are all made of adamant."

"Lilian,"--suddenly, unexpectedly,--"is there anything between you and your cousin?"

"Who?"--with wide, innocent, suspiciously innocent eyes,--"Taffy?"

"No," impatiently: "of course I mean Chesney," looking at her with devouring interest.

"Yes,"--disconsolately, with a desire for revenge,--"more miles than I care to count."

"I feel"--steadily--"it is a gross rudeness my asking, and I know you need not answer me unless you like; but"--with a quick breath--"try to answer my question. Has anything pa.s.sed between you and Chesney?"

"Not much," mildly: "one thrilling love-letter, and that ring."

"He never asked you to marry him?" with renewed hope.

"Oh, by the bye, I quite forgot that," indifferently. "Yes, he did ask me so much."

"And you refused him?" asks Guy, eagerly, intensely, growing white and cold beneath the moon's pitiless rays, that seem to take a heartless pleasure in lighting up his agitated face at this moment. But Lilian's eyes are turned away from his: so this degradation is spared him.

"No--n--o, not exactly," replies she.

"You accepted him?" with dry lips and growing despair.

"N--o, not exactly," again returns Miss Chesney, with affected hesitation.

"Then what _did_ you do?" pa.s.sionately, his impatient fear getting the better of his temper.

"I don't feel myself at liberty to tell you," retorts Lilian, with a provoking a.s.sumption of dignity.

Sir Guy looks as though he would like to give her a good shake, though indeed it is quite a question whether he has even the spirits for so much. He relapses into sulky silence, and makes no further attempt at conversation.

"However," says Lilian, to whom silence is always irksome, "I don't mind telling you what I shall do if he asks me again."

"What?" almost indifferently.

"I shall accept him."

"You will do very wisely," in a clear though constrained voice that doesn't altogether impose upon Lilian, but nevertheless disagrees with her. "He is very rich, very handsome, and a very good fellow all round."

"I don't much care about good fellows," perversely: "they are generally deadly slow; I am almost sure I prefer the other sort. I am afraid mine is not a well-regulated mind, as I confess I always feel more kindly disposed toward a man when I hear something bad of him."

"Perhaps if I told you something bad about myself it might make you feel more kindly disposed toward me," with a slight smile.

"Perhaps it might. But I believe you are incapable of a bad action.

Besides, if I felt myself going to like you, I should stop myself instantly."

A pained hurt expression falls into his eyes.

"I think," he says, very gently, "you must make a point of reserving all your cruel speeches for me alone. Do you guess how they hurt, child? No, I am sure you do not: your face is far too sweet to belong to one who would willingly inflict pain. Am I to be always despised and hated? Why will you never be friends with me?"

"Because"--in a very low whisper--"you are so seldom good to me."

"Am I? You will never know how hard I try to be. But"--taking her hand in his--"my efforts are always vain." He glances sorrowfully at the little hand he holds, and then at the pretty face beneath the velvet hat so near him. Lilian does not return his glance: her eyes are lowered, her other hand is straying nervously over the tiger-skin that covers her knees; they have forgotten all about the cold, the dreary night, everything; for a full half mile they drive on thus silently, her hand resting unresistingly in his; after which he again breaks the quiet that exists between them.

"Did you mean what you said a little time ago about Chetwoode not being your home?"

"I suppose so," in a rather changed and far softer tone. "Yes. What claim have I on Chetwoode?"

"But your tone implied that if even you had a claim it would be distasteful to you."

"Did it?"

"Don't you know it did?"

"Well, perhaps I didn't mean quite that. Did _you_ mean all you said this morning?"

"Not all, I suppose."

"How much of it, then?"

"Unless I were to go through the whole of our conversation again, I could not tell you that, and I have no wish to do so: to be pained"--in a low voice--"as I have been, once in a day is surely sufficient."

"Don't imagine I feel the least sorrow for you," says Lilian, making a wild attempt at recovering her ill humor, which has melted and vanished away.