le.

The two women exchanged the necessary number of inanities, then the
Marchioness turned to Wingrave.

"You won't forget that you are dining with me tomorrow?"

Wingrave shook his head regretfully.

"I am sorry," he said, "but I have to go out of town. I have just
written you."

"What a bore," she remarked. "Business, of course!"

She nodded and passed on. Her farewell to Lady Ruth was distinctly curt.
Wingrave resumed his seat and his luncheon without remark.

"Hateful woman," Lady Ruth murmured.

"I thought you were friends," Wingrave remarked.

"Yes, we are," Lady Ruth assented, "the sort of friendship you men don't
know much about. You see a good deal of her, don't you?"

Wingrave raised his head and looked at Lady Ruth contemplatively.

"Why do you ask me that?" he asked.

"Curiosity!"

"I do," he remarked; "you should be grateful to her."

"Why?"

"It may save you a similar infliction."

Lady Ruth was silent for several moments.

"Perhaps," she said at last, "I do not choose to be relieved."

Wingrave bowed, his glass in his hand. His lips were curled into the
semblance of a smile, but he did not say a word. Lady Ruth leaned a
little across the table so that the feathers of her hat nearly brushed
his forehead.

"Wingrave," she asked, "do you know what fear is? Perhaps not! You are
a man, you see. No one has ever called me a coward. You wouldn't, would
you?"

"No!" he said deliberately, "you are not a coward."

"There is only one sort of fear which I know," she continued, "and that
is the fear of what I do not understand. And that is why, Wingrave, I am
afraid of you."

He set down his glass, and his fingers trifled for a moment with its
stem. His expression was inscrutable.

"Surely," he said, "you are not serious!"

"I am serious," she declared, "and you know that I am."

"You are afraid of me," he repeated softly. "I wonder why."

She looked him straight in the eyes.

"Because," she said, "I did you once a very grievous wrong. Because I
know that you have not forgiven me. Because I am very sure that all the
good that was in you lies slain."

"By whose hand?" he asked quietly. "No! You need not answer. You know.
So do I. Yes, I can understand your fear. But I do not understand why
you confess it to me."

"Nor I," she answered. "Nor do I understand why I am here--at your
bidding, nor why I keep you always by my side whenever you choose to
take your place there. Are you a v