Their tone, too, had a satisfying effect. It was no longer that of imperious contradiction, such as he had been accustomed to for twelve months after marriage. This had ceased on that day when the leg of a chair coming in contact with his beloved's crown had left a slight cicatrice upon her left temple--like a stain in statuary marble. From that hour the partner of his bosom had shown herself a changed woman--at least toward himself. Notwithstanding the many quarrels, and recriminative bickerings, that had preceded it, it was the first time he had resorted to personal violence. And it had produced its effect.

Coward as she knew him to be, he had proved himself brave enough to bully her. She had feared him ever since. Hence her trepidation as she made answer to his inquiry as to whether any one had called.

There was a time when Frances Wilder would not have trembled at such a question, nor stammered in her reply.

She started again, and again showed signs of confusion, as the shuffling of feet on the flags outside was followed by a knock at the door.

It was a double one; not the violent repeat of the postman, but the rat-tat-tat given either by a gentleman or lady--from its gentleness more like the latter.

"Who can it be?" asked Swinton, taking the pipe from between his teeth.

"Nobody for us, I hope."

In London, Mr Swinton did not long for unexpected visitors. He had too many "kites" abroad, to relish the ring of the doorbell, or the more startling summons of the knocker.

"Can't be for us," said his wife, in a tone of mock confidence.

"There's no one likely to be calling; unless some of your old friends have seen you as you came home. Did you meet any one on the way?"

"No, nobody saw me," gruffly returned the husband.

"There's a family upstairs--in the drawing-rooms. I suppose it's for them, or the people of the house."

The supposition was contradicted by a dialogue heard outside in the hall. It was as follows:

"Mrs Swinton at home?"

The inquiry was in a man's voice, who appeared to have passed in from the steps.

"Yis, sirr!" was the reply of the Irish janitress, who had answered the knock.

"Give my card; and ask the lady if I can see her."

"By Jove! that's Cottrell!" muttered the ex-guardsman, recognising the voice.

"Sir Robert Cottrell" was upon the card brought in by the maid-of-all-work.

"Show him in?" whispered Swinton to the servant, without waiting to ask permission from Fan; who, expressing surprise at the unexpected visit, sprang to her feet, and glided back into the bedroom.

There was a strangeness in the fashion of his wife's retreat, which the husband could scarce help perceiving. He took no notice of it, however, his mind at the moment busied with a useful idea that had suddenly suggested itself.

Little as he liked Sir Robert Cottrell, or much as he may have had imaginings about the object of his visit, Swinton at that moment felt inclined to receive him. The odour of the salt herring was in his nostrils; and he was in a mood to prefer the perfume that exhales from the cambric handkerchief of a debonnaire baronet--such as he knew Sir Robert to be.

It was with no thought of calling his quondam Brighton acquaintance to account that he directed the servant to show him in.

And in he was shown.

CHAPTER FORTY.

A CAUTIOUS BARONET.

The baronet looked a little blank, as the open parlour door discovered inside a "party" he had no intention of calling upon.

Accustomed to such surprises, however, he was not disconcerted. He had some knowledge of the ex-guardsman's character. He knew he was in ill-luck; and that under such circumstances he would not be exactingly inquisitive.

"Aw, Swinton, my dear fellaw," he exclaimed, holding out his kid-gloved hand. "Delighted to see you again. Madam told me she expected you home. I just dropped in, hoping to find you returned. Been to Paris, I hear?"

"I have," said Swinton, taking the hand with a show of cordiality.

"Terrible times over there. Wonder you came off with a whole skin?"

"By Jove, it's about all I brought off with me."

"Aw, indeed! What mean you by that?"

"Well; I went over to get some money that's been long owing me. Instead of getting it, I lost what little I carried across."

"How did you do that, my dear fellaw?"

"Well, the truth is, I was tempted into card-playing with some French officers I chanced to meet at the Mille Colonnes. It was their cursed _ecarte_. They knew the game better than I; and very soon cleared me out. I had barely enough to bring me back again. I thank God I'm here once more; though how I'm going to weather it this winter, heaven only knows! You'll excuse me, Sir Robert, for troubling you with this confession of my private affairs. I'm in such a state of mind, I scarce know what I'm saying. Confound France and Frenchmen! I don't go among them again; not if I know it."

Sir Robert Cottrell, though supposed to be rich, was not accustomed to squandering money--upon men. With women he was less penurious; though with these only a spendthrift, when their smiles could not be otherwise obtained. He was one of those gallants who prefer making conquests at the cheapest possible rates; and, when made, rarely spend money to secure them. Like the butterfly, he liked flitting from flower to flower.

That he had not dropped in hoping to find Mr Swinton, but had come on purpose to visit his wife, the craven husband knew just as well as if he had openly avowed it. And the motive, too; all the more from such a shallow excuse.

It was upon the strength of this knowledge that the ex-guardsman was so communicative about his financial affairs. It was a delicate way of making it known, that he would not be offended by the offer of a trifling loan.

Sir Robert was in a dilemma. A month earlier he would have much less minded it. But during that month he had met Mrs Swinton several times, in the Long Walk, as elsewhere. He had been fancying his conquest achieved, and did not feel disposed to pay for a triumph already obtained.

For this reason he was slow to perceive the hint so delicately thrown out to him.

Swinton reflected on a way to make it more understandable. The _debris_ of the frugal _dejeuner_ came to his assistance.

"Look!" said he, pointing to the picked bones of the herring with an affectation of gaiety, "look there, Sir Robert! You might fancy it to be Friday. That fine fish was purchased with the last penny in my pocket. To-morrow _is_ Friday; and I suppose I shall have to keep Lent still more austerely. Ha! ha! ha!"

There was no resisting such an appeal as this. The close-fisted aristocrat felt himself fairly driven into a corner.

"My dear fellaw!" said he, "don't talk in that fashion. If a fiver will be of any service to you, I hope you will do me the favour to accept it.

I know you won't mind it from me?"

"Sir Robert, it is too kind. I--I--"

"Don't mention it. I shouldn't think of offering you such a paltry trifle; but just now my affairs are a little queerish. I dropped a lot upon the last Derby; and my lawyer is trying to raise a further mortgage on my Devonshire estate. If that can be effected, things will, of course, be different. Meanwhile, take this. It may pass you over your present difficulty, till something turns up."

"Sir Robert, I--"

"No apology, Swinton! It is I who owe it, for the shabby sum."

The ex-guardsman ceased to resist; and the five-pound note, pressed into his palm was permitted to remain there.