Anna laughed softly.

"You propose, then," she remarked, "that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. I think not, Annabel. You are welcome to proclaim yourself 'Alcide' if you will. I would even make over my engagement to you, if Mr. Earles would permit. But I should certainly want to be rid of Mr. Montague Hill, and I do not think that under those circ.u.mstances I should be long about it."

Annabel sank suddenly into a chair. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs.

"Anna," she moaned, "I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. But oh, how weary I am! I know. If only--Anna, tell me," she broke off suddenly, "how did you get to know Mr. Ennison?"

"He spoke to me, thinking that I was you," Anna answered. "I liked him, and I never undeceived him."

"And he sat at my table," Annabel said bitterly, "and yet he did not know me."

Anna glanced up.

"You must remember," she said, "that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks."

"For the others," Annabel said tearfully, "that is well enough. But for him----"

Something in her sister's tone startled Anna. She looked at her for a moment fixedly. When she tried to speak she found it difficult. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off.

"What do you mean, Annabel? You only knew Mr. Ennison slightly----"

There was a dead silence in the little room. Anna sat with the face of a Sphinx--waiting. Annabel thought, and thought again.

"I knew Mr. Ennison better than I have ever told you," she said slowly.

"Go on!"

"You know--in Paris they coupled my name with some one's--an Englishman's. Nigel Ennison was he."

Anna stood up. Her cheeks were aflame. Her eyes were lit with smouldering pa.s.sion.

"Go on!" she commanded. "Let me know the truth."

Annabel looked down. It was hard to meet that gaze.

"Does he never speak to you of--of old times?" she faltered.

"Don't fence with me," Anna cried fiercely. "The truth!"

Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister's ear.

_Chapter XXII_

AN OLD FOOL

Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. She was wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least.

"I am delighted to see you, Mr. Ennison," she said, letting her fingers rest in his. "Do come and cheer me up. I am bored to distraction."

He took a seat by her side. He was looking pale and ill. There were shadows under his eyes. He returned her impressive greeting almost mechanically.

"But you yourself," she exclaimed, glancing into his face, "you too look tired. You poor man, what have you been doing to yourself?"

"Nothing except travelling all night," he answered. "I am just back from Paris. I am bothered. I have come to you for sympathy, perhaps for help."

"You may be sure of the one," she murmured. "The other too if it is within my power."

"It is within yours--if anybody's," he answered. "It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall."

Annabel gave a little gasp. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. The change in her face was not a pleasant one.

"About my sister," she repeated slowly.

Her tone should have warned him, but he was too much in earnest to regard it.

"Yes. You remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?"

"Yes."

"And you knew, of course, that we were old friends?"

"Indeed!"

"Lady Ferringhall, I love your sister."

"You what?" she repeated incredulously.

"I love your sister."

Lady Ferringhall sat with half closed eyes and clenched teeth. Brute!

Fool! To have come to her on such an errand. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman.

"But--your people!" she gasped. "Surely Lady Ennison would object, even if it were possible. And the Duke, too--I heard him say that a married secretary would be worse than useless to him."

"The difficulties on my own side I can deal with," he answered. "I am not dependent upon any one. I have plenty of money, and the Duke will not be in the next Cabinet. My trouble is with your sister."

Lady Ferringhall was conscious of some relief.

"She has refused to listen to you?"

"She has behaved in a most extraordinary manner," he answered. "We parted--that night the best of friends. She knew that I cared for her, she had admitted that she cared for me. I suppose I was a little idiotic--I don't think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. When I went I was refused admittance. I have since received a most extraordinary letter from her. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope. She simply refuses to see or hear from me again. I went to the theatre that night. I waited for her at the back. She saw me, and, Lady Ferringhall, I shall never forget her look as long as I live. It was horrible. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. I could not have spoken to her. It took my breath away.

By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. My letters are returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the doorstep."

"The explanation seems to me to be reasonably simple," Annabel said coldly. "You seem to forget that my sister is--married."