ommands, and I took advantage of it.'

'I feared,' said Carinthia. 'I go for my chance.'

Gower had a thought of the smaller creature, greater by position, to whom
she was going for her chance. He alluded to his experience of the earl's
kindness in relation to himself, from a belief in his 'honesty'; dotted
outlines of her husband's complex character, or unmixed and violently
opposing elements.

She remarked: 'I will try and learn.'

The name of the street of beautiful shops woke a happy smile on her
mouth. 'Father talked of it; my mother, too. He has it written down in
his Book of Maxims. When I was a girl, I dreamed of one day walking up
Bond Street.'

They stepped from the pavement and crossed the roadway for a side-street
leading to the square. With the swift variation of her aspect at times,
her tone changed.

'We are near. My lord will not be troubled by me. He has only to meet me.
There has been misunderstanding. I have vexed him; I could not help it. I
will go where he pleases after I have heard him give orders. He thinks me
a frightful woman. I am peaceful.'

Gower muttered her word 'misunderstanding.' They were at the earl's house
door. One tap at it, and the two applicants for admission would probably
be shot as far away from Lord Fleetwood as when they were on the Styrian
heights last autumn. He delivered the tap, amused by the idea. It was
like a summons to a genie of doubtful service.

My lord was out riding in the park.

Only the footman appeared at that early hour, and his countenance was
blank whitewash as he stood rigid against the wall for the lady to pass.
Madge followed into the morning room; Ines remained in the hall, where he
could have the opening speech with his patron, and where he soon had
communication with the butler.

This official entered presently to Gower, presenting a loaded forehead. A
note addressed to Mrs. Kirby-Levellier at the Countess Livia's house hard
by was handed to him for instant despatch. He signified a deferential
wish to speak.

'You can speak in the presence of the Countess of Fleetwood, Mr. Waytes,'
Gower said.

Waytes checked a bend of his shoulders. He had not a word, and he turned
to send the note. He was compelled to think that he saw a well-grown
young woman in the Whitechapel Countess.

Gower's note reached Henrietta on her descent to the breakfast-table. She
was, alone, and thrown into a torture of perplexity: for she wanted
advice as to the advi