"Would it?" he murmured rather dubiously and smiling. "Well--I shall be quite contented if you will talk to me, Lady Errington!"

"Ah, but I am not at all clever in conversation," responded Thelma quite seriously. "I am sure you, as well as many others, must have noticed that. I never do seem to say exactly the right thing to please everybody. Is it not very unfortunate?"

He laughed a little. "I have yet to learn in what way you do not please everybody," he said, dropping his voice to a low, caressing cadence.

"Who, that sees you, does not admire--and--and love you?"

She met his languorous gaze without embarra.s.sment,--while the childlike openness of her regard confused and slightly shamed him.

"Admire me? Oh yes!" she said somewhat plaintively. "It is that of which I am so weary! Because G.o.d has made one pleasant in form and face,--to be stared at and whispered about, and have all one's dresses copied!--all that is so small and common and mean, and does vex me so much!"

"It is the penalty you pay for being beautiful," said Sir Francis slowly, wondering within himself at the extraordinary incongruity of a feminine creature who was actually tired of admiration.

She made no reply--the wheel went round faster than before. Presently Lennox set aside his emptied cup, and drawing his chair a little closer to hers, asked--

"When does Errington return?"

"I cannot tell you," she answered. "He said that he might be late. Mr.

Neville is with him."

There was another silence. "Lady Errington," said Sir Francis abruptly--"pray excuse me--I speak as a friend, and in your interests,--how long is this to last?"

The wheel stopped. She raised her eyes,--they were grave and steady.

"I do not understand you," she returned quietly. "What is it that you mean?"

He hesitated--then went on, with lowered eyelids and a half-smile.

"I mean--what all our set's talking about--Errington's queer fancy for that actress at the Brilliant."

Thelma still gazed at him fixedly. "It is a mistake," she said resolutely, "altogether a mistake. And as you are his friend, Sir Francis, you will please contradict this report--which is wrong, and may do Philip harm. It has no truth in it at all--"

"No truth!" exclaimed Lennox. "It's true as Gospel! Lady Errington, I'm sorry for it--but your husband is deceiving you most shamefully!"

"How dare you say such a thing!" she cried, springing upright and facing him,--then she stopped and grew very pale--but she kept her eyes upon him. How bright they were! What a chilling pride glittered in their sea-blue depths!

"You are in error," she said coldly. "If it is wrong to visit this theatre you speak of, why are you so often seen there--and why is not some harm said of _you_? It is not your place to speak against my husband. It is shameful and treacherous! You do forget yourself most wickedly!"

And she moved to leave the room. But Sir Francis interposed.

"Lady Errington," he said very gently, "don't be hard upon me--pray forgive me! Of course I've no business to speak--but how can I help it?

When I hear every one at the clubs discussing you, and pitying you, it's impossible to listen quite unmoved! I'm the least among your friends, I know,--but I can't bear this sort of thing to go on,--the whole affair will be dished up in the society papers next!"

And he paced the room half impatiently,--a very well-feigned expression of friendly concern and sympathy on his features. Thelma stood motionless, a little bewildered--her head throbbed achingly, and there was a sick sensation of numbness creeping about her.

"I tell you it is all wrong!" she repeated with an effort. "I do not understand why these people at the clubs should talk of me, or pity me.

I do not need any pity! My husband is all goodness and truth,"--she stopped and gathered courage as she went on. "Yes! he is better, braver, n.o.bler than all other men in the world, it seems to me! He gives me all the joy of my life--each day and night I thank G.o.d for the blessing of his love!"

She paused again. Sir Francis turned and looked at her steadily. A sudden thought seemed to strike her, for she advanced eagerly, a sweet color flushing the pallor of her skin.

"You can do so much for me if you will!" she said, laying her hand on his arm. "You can tell all these people who talk so foolishly that they are wrong,--tell them how happy I am! And that my Philip has never deceived me in any matter, great or small!"

"Never?" he asked with a slight sneer. "You are sure?"

"Sure!" she answered bravely. "He would keep nothing from me that it was necessary or good for me to know. And I--oh! I might pa.s.s all my life in striving to please him, and yet I should never, never be worthy of all his tenderness and goodness! And that he goes many times to a theatre without me--what is it? A mere nothing--a trifle to laugh at! It is not needful to tell me of such a small circ.u.mstance!"

As she spoke she smiled--her form seemed to dilate with a sort of inner confidence and rapture.

Sir Francis stared at her half shamed,--half savage. The beautiful, appealing face, bright with simple trust, roused him to no sort of manly respect or forbearance,--the very touch of the blossom-white hand she had laid so innocently on his arm, stung his pa.s.sion as with a lash--as he had said, he was fond of hunting--he had chased the unconscious deer all through the summer, and now that it had turned to bay with such pitiful mildness and sweet pleading, why not draw the knife across its slim throat without mercy?

"Really, Lady Errington!" he said at last sarcastically, "your wifely enthusiasm and confidence are indeed charming! But, unfortunately, the proofs are all against you. Truth is truth, however much you may wish to blind your eyes to its manifestations. I sincerely wish Sir Philip were present to hear your eloquent praises of him, instead of being where he most undoubtedly is,--in the arms of Violet Vere!"

As he said these words she started away from him and put her hands to her ears as though to shut out some discordant sound--her eyes glowed feverishly. A cold shiver shook her from head to foot.

"That is false--false!" she muttered in a low, choked voice. "How can you--how dare you?"

She ceased, and with a swaying, bewildered movement, as though she were blind, she fell senseless at his feet.

In one second he was kneeling beside her. He raised her head on his arm,--he gazed eagerly on her fair, still features. A dark contraction of his brows showed that his thoughts were not altogether righteous ones. Suddenly he laid her down again gently, and, springing to the door, locked it. Returning, he once more lifted her in a half-reclining position, and encircling her with his arms, drew her close to his breast and kissed her. He was in no hurry for her to recover--she looked very beautiful--she was helpless--she was in his power. The silvery ting-ling of the clock on the mantel-piece striking eleven startled him a little--he listened painfully--he thought he heard some one trying the handle of the door he had locked. Again--again he kissed those pale, unconscious lips! Presently, a slight shiver ran through her frame--she sighed, and a little moan escaped her. Gradually, as warmth and sensation returned to her, she felt the pressure of his embrace, and murmured--

"Philip! Darling,--you have come back earlier,--I thought--"

Here she opened her eyes and met those of Sir Francis, who was eagerly bending over her. She uttered an exclamation of alarm, and strove to rise. He held her still more closely.

"Thelma--dear, dearest Thelma! Let me comfort you,--let me tell you how much I love you!"

And before she could divine his intent, he pressed his lips pa.s.sionately on her pale cheek. With a cry she tore herself violently from his arms and sprang to her feet, trembling in every limb.

"What--what is this?" she exclaimed wrathfully. "Are you mad?"

And still weak and confused from her recent attack of faintness, she pushed back her hair from her brows and regarded him with a sort of puzzled horror.

He flushed deeply, and set his lips hard.

"I dare say I am," he answered, with a bitter laugh; "in fact, I know I am! You see, I've betrayed my miserable secret. Will you forgive me, Lady Errington--Thelma?" He drew nearer to her, and his eyes darkened with restrained pa.s.sion. "Matchless beauty!--adorable woman, as you are!--will you not pardon my crime, if crime it be--the crime of loving you? For I do love you!--Heaven only knows how utterly and desperately!"

She stood mute, white, almost rigid, with that strange look of horror frozen, as it were, upon her features. Emboldened by her silence, he approached and caught her hand,--she wrenched it from his grasp and motioned him from her with a gesture of such royal contempt that he quailed before her. All suddenly the flood-gates of her speech were loosened,--the rising tide of burning indignation that in its very force had held her dumb and motionless, now broke forth unrestrainedly.

"O G.o.d!" she cried impetuously, a magnificent glory of disdain flashing in her jewel-like eyes, "what _thing_ is this that calls itself a man?--this thief of honor,--this pretended friend? What have I done, sir, that you should put such deep disgrace as your so-called _love_ upon me?--what have I _seemed_, that you thus dare to outrage me by the pollution of your touch? I,--the wife of the n.o.blest gentleman in the land! Ah!" and she drew a long breath--"and it is you who speak against my husband--_you_!" She smiled scornfully,--then with more calmness continued--"You will leave my house, sir, at once! . . . and never presume to enter it again!"

And she stepped towards the bell. He looked at her with an evil leer.

"Stop a moment!" he said coolly. "Just one moment before you ring. Pray consider! The servant cannot possibly enter, as the door is locked."

"You _dared_ to lock the door!" she exclaimed, a sudden fear chilling her heart as she remembered similar manoeuvres on the part of the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy--then another thought crossed her mind, and she began to retreat towards a large painted panel of "Venus" disporting among cupids and dolphins in the sea. Sir Francis sprang to her side, and caught her arm in an iron grip--his face was aflame with baffled spite and vindictiveness.

"Yes, I _dared_!" he muttered with triumphant malice. "And I dared do more than that! You lay unconscious in my arms,--you beautiful, bewitching Thelma, and I kissed you--ay! fifty times! You can never undo those kisses! You can never forget that _my_ lips, as well as your husband's, have rested on yours--I have had that much joy that shall never be taken away from me! And if I choose, even now,"--and he gripped her more closely--"yes, even now I will kiss you, in spite of you!--who is to prevent me? I will force you to love me, Thelma--"

Driven to bay, she struck him with all her force in the face, across the eyes.