"It is awkward, certainly. I should leave cards, and not ask if she is in. That is about the best hint if you don't desire her acquaintance."

"She will think me so horrid," sighs Eleanor, "but I will do as you wish."

The following afternoon Eleanor, card-case in hand, rings at Mrs.

Mounteagle's, prepared to carry out her husband's suggestion.

A soft voice singing in the garden arrests her attention. It is the sweetest sound Eleanor has ever heard. Light footsteps crunch the gravel, and a slim, dark woman approaches with slumbrous eyes, which look at the visitor dreamily. A smile, like a fitful name, flickers over Mrs. Mounteagle's face, suddenly bursting into a bright expression of ill-concealed amus.e.m.e.nt at Eleanor's nervous demeanour.

"Mrs. Roche," she exclaims, holding out a welcoming hand. "You see, being such near neighbours, I know you already by sight. I am sure, if you are only just married, you must find first calls most boring and tedious. But I am very glad you selected this afternoon to return mine, for I am simply pining to talk to someone. The dead leaves and general decay out here give one the blues. Come in, and help me to appreciate my first fire."

Eleanor has utterly forgotten her husband's wishes, till she finds herself in a softly cushioned rocking chair, with her feet on Mrs.

Mounteagle's brightly-polished fender. Then she remembers--and ignores.

Never has any woman fascinated her as the lovely widow she is asked not to know. What sparkling conversation! and, oh, what a dainty tea service and piping hot cakes the footman places between them as they talk.

The room is far prettier than Eleanor's boudoir which she has. .h.i.therto considered such a dream of beauty. More than once Mrs. Roche suggests going, but the widow intreats her to remain.

"It is so delightful to have you!" she declares, with exuberant cordiality. "I have done nothing all the afternoon but lie on this sofa and yawn over a novel. I could have written it better myself, and that foolish librarian at Mudie's recommended it. I drive to town nearly every afternoon--there is always something to buy or something to see. Are you fond of London, Mrs. Roche?"

"I hardly know, I have been there so little. I lived in the country before my marriage, and was positively buried."

"It is a mercy then that Mr. Roche found you, and dug you up."

"Yes. I like married life much better."

"Spinsterhood is a mistake," retorts Mrs. Mounteagle. "If you have the misfortune to be thrown back upon yourself--widowed in your prime--take my advice and marry again. We poor weak little women were not made to take care of ourselves. We want a stronger arm to lean on--someone who will think for us, antic.i.p.ate our every wish, load us with all the good things of this earth, and kiss us to sleep when we die!"

Eleanor listens admiringly to this superior mind.

"I shall re-marry," continues Mrs. Mounteagle, "but not immediately. I am practically 'growing my husband.' He is still young in years, though old in frivolity, or vice, whichever you like to call it. He must have his fling before he settles down, or I shall only be binding a burden on my shoulders."

Eleanor attends with deepening interest.

"I married very young," continues Mrs. Mounteagle, "and my husband was nearly eighty. Yes," noting her visitor's surprise, "rather a difference in our ages, wasn't there?

"Love, my dear Mrs. Roche, is a science; you can learn it with careful study, and make it always accommodating, pleasant, and never vulgarly effusive. Do not imagine that the first bloom of youth gleans all the peaches, leaving only apples for after years. A clever woman seldom grows old. She erases Time with the same nimble fingers with which she creates her boudoir, and makes it appear part of her being. You admire my sanctum, and small wonder. It has cost me sleepless nights as long as the furniture bills. I invented it. These chairs for instance were not arranged, they _occurred_. The minutest detail has positively been prayed over. Look at my quaint treasures! If other hands had placed them they might appear ign.o.ble, debased. You see the curve of this pillowed couch, the tint of the curtains, it is _Art_, Mrs. Roche, Art with a big _A_."

"I am dreadfully envious," cries Eleanor, "there is no artistic genius in me."

"It must be born in the blood, but if you like I will 'compose' you a room. It shall be like a melody (if you can grasp the comparison)--subtle, entrancing."

"You are _wonderful_!" says Eleanor solemnly. "It is all so like a fairy palace, and you are the fairy, Mrs. Mounteagle."

"Then, in the guise of a mysterious gnome, let me give you a word of warning. You are a stranger in Richmond; pray take care not to get into a clique. They are so numerous and unhealthy, so full of civil wars and petty strife, that existence becomes poisoned, and all the romance of life is swept aside, seared, wasted!"

"Thank you," replies Eleanor, rising reluctantly and giving Mrs.

Mounteagle both her hands. "How good you have been to me to-day!"

"I hope we shall see a great deal of each other," answers the widow softly, "and be very great friends."

"It shan't be my fault if we are not," responds Mrs. Roche.

They part.

"Oh, ma'am! Master's been home an hour, and he's frightened to death about you."

Thus Sarah greets her on her return.

CHAPTER V.

"THE FLY THAT SIPS TREACLE IS LOST IN THE SWEETS."

"I am tired of arguing the subject," declares Philip hotly, rising from his chair and pacing the room. "If you _will_ disregard my wishes and go your own way, well----"

"Let me, that's all!" retorts Eleanor.

"No wonder you have hardly a single friend in Richmond, if your whole time is spent with Mrs. Mounteagle," he replied.

"I don't want other friends--I dislike them, Philip, and what is the good of pretending friendship for people you don't care a b.u.t.ton about?

There is not a woman in the place that can hold a candle to Giddy."

"Oh, it's 'Giddy' now, is it?"

"Why not? I have known her nearly three months."

"Yes; and every month has been one too many. Do you think I cannot see the harm she is doing you? We might have led a happy, contented life it she were not here to poison it. What did you think of your home--before you met her? Everything was perfect! What did you say of it after?"

"Dowdy--old-fashioned--run to seed. Look at the transformation! Isn't my drawing-room a poem? Has not 'Liberty' descended like the G.o.ddess of Beauty on our abode, and made it the envy of our neighbours? Giddy has practically built me up, Philip. I owe her my dress-maker, my tailor, my style, my hats, my----"

"Oh! spare me," he interrupts, "I have heard it so often."

"Dear old fellow, _don't_ be angry," coaxes Eleanor, with her old cajoling manner. "It is very hard for a poor little woman to be left alone all day, while her better half is frivoling in the City with stocks and shares, and all sorts of nice amusing things. There really is no harm in Giddy, and she is so awfully clever and entertaining."

"But I do not approve of the people you meet at her house, nor your frequent visits to town together. I don't wish my wife to be constantly seen with a woman of doubtful reputation."

"Nonsense about her reputation, it's all bosh! People are jealous of her beauty that say nasty things. She told me so herself. Besides, we only do a little shopping, and it is so dull going all by oneself."

Eleanor has crept into his arms, and is soothing his ruffled feeling with caresses.

"It is only because I love you, Eleanor," he says, with more pa.s.sionately, hungering devotion than of yore. "Her companionship is not good for you, and she is always taking you away from me. That sounds selfish, doesn't it?"

"Well, I forgive you," she whispers, "if you will be less ferocious in the future. I declare, when you walk up and down--like this,"

imitating his stride, "and show the whites of your eyes--_so_! I want to hide under the sofa, and scream."

"Oh! Eleanor, was I such a bear?"