twithstanding an obviously recent use of the powder-puff. A
mass of copper-colored hair was untidily arranged underneath a large
black hat. Her clothes were fashionable in cut, but cheap in quality.
She wore openwork stockings and high-heeled shoes, which had already
suffered from walking along the dusty roads. While she waited for an
answer to her question, she drew a handkerchief from her pocket, and
the perfume of the violet scented hedge by the side of which they
stood, was no longer a thing apparent.

Rochester, whose hatred of perfumes was one of his few weaknesses,
drew back a step involuntarily.

"If you pass through the village," he said, "Blackbird's Nest is the
second house upon the right-hand side. It lies a little way back from
the road, but you cannot miss it."

"I am sure I am very much obliged," the lady answered. "If I had known
it was as far as this, I'd have waited till I could have found a
carriage. The porter at the station told me that it was just a step."

Rochester raised his cap and turned away. Lois walked soberly by his
side for several moments.

"I wonder," she said softly, "what a person like that could want with
Mr. Saton."

Rochester shrugged his shoulders.

"We know nothing of Saton or his life," he answered. "He has wandered
up and down the world, and I daresay he has made some queer
acquaintances."

"But his taste," Lois persisted, "is so perfect. I cannot understand
his permitting a creature like that to even come near him."

Rochester smiled.

"One does strange things under compulsion," he remarked. "I see that
they have been rolling the putting greens. Shall we go and challenge
Penarvon and Mrs. Hinckley to a round at golf?"

She glanced once more over her shoulder toward the village--perhaps
beyond.

"If you like," she answered, resignedly.

CHAPTER VI

PAULINE MARRABEL

The words which passed between Pauline Marrabel and her host at the
railway station were words which the whole world might have heard and
remained unedified. The first part of their drive homeward, even,
passed in complete silence. Yet if their faces told the story,
Rochester was with the woman he loved. He had driven a small pony-cart
to the station. There was no room, even, for a groom behind. They sat
side by side, jogging on through the green country lanes, until they
came to the long hill which led to the higher country. The luggage
cart and the omnibus, with her maid and the groom