"Help each other?"

"Dear Mrs. Talbot," says Dynecourt softly, "has it never occurred to you how safe a thing it would be for my cousin Sir Adrian to marry a sensible woman--a woman who understands the world and its ways--a woman young and beautiful certainly, but yet conversant with the _convenances_ of society? Such a woman would rescue Adrian from the shoals and quicksands that surround him in the form of mercenary friends and scheming mothers. Such a woman might surely be found. Nay, I think I myself could put my hand upon her, if I dared, at this moment."

Mrs. Talbot trembles slightly, and blushes a good deal, but says nothing.

"He is my nearest of kin," goes on Dynecourt, in the same low impa.s.sive voice. "Naturally I am interested in him, and my interest on this point is surely without motive; as, were he never to marry, were he to leave no heir, were he to die some sudden death"--here a remarkable change overspreads his features--"I should inherit all the land you see around you, and the t.i.tle besides."

Mrs. Talbot is still silent. She merely bows her head in a.s.sent.

"Then, you see, I mean kindly toward him when I suggest that he should marry some one calculated to sustain his rank in the world," continues Dynecourt. "As I have said before, I know one who would fill the position charmingly, if she would deign to do so."

"And who?" falters Dora Talbot nervously.

"May I say to whom I allude?" he murmurs. "Mrs. Talbot, pardon me if I have been impertinent in thinking of you as that woman."

A little flickering smile adorns Dora's lips for a moment, then, suddenly remembering that smiles do not become her, she relapses into her former calm.

"You flatter me," she says sweetly.

"I never flatter," he responds, with telling emphasis. "But, I can see you are not angry, and so I am emboldened to say plainly, I would gladly see you my cousin's wife. Is the idea not altogether abhorrent to you?"

"No. Oh, no!"

"It is perhaps--pardon me if I go too far--even agreeable to you?"

"Mr. Dynecourt," says Mrs. Talbot, suddenly glancing at him and laying her jeweled fingers lightly on his arm, "I will confess to you that I am tired of being alone--dependent on myself, as it were--thrown on my own judgment for the answering of every question that arises. I would gladly acknowledge a superior head. I would have some one to help me now and then with a word of advice; in short, I would have a husband. And,"--here she lays her fan against her lips and glances archly at him--"I confess too that I like Sir Adrian as--well--as well as any man I know."

"He is a very fortunate man"--gravely. "I would he knew his happiness."

"Not for worlds," says Mrs. Talbot, with well-feigned alarm. "You would not even hint to him such a thing as--as--" She stops, confused.

"I shall hint nothing--do nothing, except what you wish. Ah, Mrs.

Talbot"--with a heavy sigh--"you are supremely happy! I envy you! With your fascinations and"--insinuatingly--"a word in season from me, I see no reason why you should not claim as your own the man whom you--well, let us say, like; while I--"

"If I can befriend you in any way," interrupts Dora quickly, "command me."

She is indeed quite dazzled by the picture he has painted before her eyes. Can it be--is it--possible, that Sir Adrian may some day be hers?

Apart from his wealth, she regards him with very tender feelings, and of late she has been rendered at times absolutely miserable by the thought that he has fallen a victim to the charms of Florence.

Now if, by means of this man, her rival can be kept out of Adrian's way, all may yet be well, and her host may be brought to her feet before her visit comes to an end.

Of Arthur Dynecourt's infatuation for Florence she is fully aware, and is right in deeming that part of his admiration for the beautiful girl has grown out of his knowledge of her money-bags. Still, she argues to herself, his love is true and faithful, despite his knowledge of her _dot_, and he will in all probability make her as good a husband as she is likely to find.

"May I command you?" asks Arthur, in his softest tones. "You know my secret, I believe. Ever since that last meeting at Brighton, when my heart overcame me and made me show my sentiments openly and in your presence, you have been aware of the hopeless pa.s.sion that is consuming me. I may be mad, but I still think that, with opportunities and time, I might make myself at least tolerated by Miss Delmaine. Will you help me in this matter? Will you give me the chance of pleading my cause with her alone? By so doing"--with a meaning smile--"you will also give my cousin the happy chance of seeing you alone."

Dora only too well understands his insinuation. Latterly Sir Adrian and Florence have been almost inseparable. To now meet with one whose interest it is to keep them asunder is very pleasant to her.

"I will help you," she says in a low tone.

"Then try to induce Miss Delmaine to give me a private rehearsal to-morrow in the north gallery," he whispers hurriedly, seeing Captain Ringwood and Miss Villiers approaching. "Hush! Not another word! I rely upon you. Above all things, remember that what has occurred is only between you and me. It is our little plot," he says, with a curious smile that somehow strikes a chill to Mrs. Talbot's heart.

She is faithful to her word nevertheless, and late that night, when all have gone to their rooms, she puts on her dressing-gown, dismisses her maid, and crossing the corridor, taps lightly at the door of Florence's apartment.

Hearing some one cry "Come in," she opens the door, and, having fastened it again, goes over to where Florence is sitting while her maid is brushing her long soft hair that reaches almost to the ground as she sits.

"Let me brush your hair to-night, Flo," she says gayly. "Let me be your maid for once. Remember how I used to do it for you sometimes when we were in Switzerland last year."

"Very well--you may," acquiesces Florence, laughing. "Good-night, Parkins. Mrs. Talbot has won you your release."

Parkins having gladly withdrawn, Dora takes up the ivory-handled brush and gently begins to brush her cousin's hair.

After some preliminary conversation leading up to the subject she has in hand, she says carelessly--

"By the bye, Flo, you are rather uncivil to Arthur Dynecourt, don't you think?"

"Uncivil?"

"Well--yes. That is the word for your behavior toward him, I think. Do you know, I am afraid Sir Adrian has noticed it, and aren't you afraid he will think it rather odd of you--rude, I mean--considering he is his cousin?"

"Not a very favorite cousin, I fancy."

"For all that, people don't like seeing their relations slighted. I once knew a man who used to abuse his brother all day long, but, if any one else happened to say one disparaging word of him in his presence, it put him in a pretty rage. And, after all, poor Arthur has done nothing to deserve actual ill-treatment at your hands."

"I detest him. And, besides, it is a distinct impertinence to follow any one about from place to place as he has followed me. I will not submit to it calmly. It is a positive persecution."

"My dear, you must not blame him if he has lost his head about you. That is rather a compliment, if anything."

"I shall always resent such compliments."

"He is certainly very gentlemanly in all other ways, and I must say devoted to you. He is handsome too, is he not; and has quite the air of one accustomed to command in society?"

"Has he paid you to sing his praises?" asks Florence, with a little laugh; but her words so nearly hit the mark that Dora blushes painfully.

"I mean," she explains at last, in a rather hurried way, "that I do not think it is good form to single out any one in a household where one is a guest to show him pointed rudeness. You give all the others acting in this play ample opportunities of rehearsing alone with you. It has been remarked to me by two or three that you purposely slight and avoid Mr.

Dynecourt."

"So I do," Florence admits calmly; adding, "Your two or three have great perspicacity."

"They even hinted to me," Dora goes on deliberately, "that your dislike to him arose from the fact that you were piqued at his being your stage lover, instead of--Sir Adrian!"

It costs her an effort to utter these words, but the effect produced by them is worth the effort.

Florence, growing deadly pale, releases her hair from her cousin's grasp, and rises quickly to her feet.

"I don't know who your gossips may be," she says slowly; "but they are wrong--quite wrong--do you hear? My dislike to Mr. Dynecourt arises from very different feelings. He is distasteful to me in many ways; but, as I am undesirous that my manner should give occasion for surmises such as you have just mentioned to me, I will give him an opportunity of reciting his part to me, alone, as soon as ever he wishes."

"I think you are right, dearest," responds Mrs. Talbot sweetly. She is a little afraid of her cousin, but still maintains her position bravely.

"It is always a mark of folly to defy public opinion. Do not wait for him to ask you again to go through your play with him alone, but tell him yourself to-morrow that you will meet him for that purpose in the north gallery some time during the day."