of home-like
habits. He had at one time been fond of acting, had even rented a
theatre in London, and on its boards had first seen Miss Marion Dawson,
to whom he had offered his hand, his title, and the third of a county.
Since his marriage this early hobby had become distasteful to him.
Even in private theatricals it was no longer possible to persuade him
to exercise the talent which he had often shown that he possessed. He
was happier with a spud and a watering-can among his orchids and
chrysanthemums.

It was quite an interesting problem whether he was absolutely devoid of
sense, or miserably wanting in spirit. Did he know his lady's ways and
condone them, or was he a mere blind, doting fool? It was a point to
be discussed over the teacups in snug little drawing-rooms, or with the
aid of a cigar in the bow windows of clubs. Bitter and plain were the
comments among men upon his conduct. There was but one who had a good
word to say for him, and he was the most silent member in the
smoking-room. He had seen him break in a horse at the university, and
it seemed to have left an impression upon his mind.

But when Douglas Stone became the favourite, all doubts as to Lord
Sannox's knowledge or ignorance were set for ever at rest. There, was
no subterfuge about Stone. In his high-handed, impetuous fashion, he
set all caution and discretion at defiance. The scandal became
notorious. A learned body intimated that his name had been struck from
the list of its vice-presidents. Two friends implored him to consider
his professional credit. He cursed them all three, and spent forty
guineas on a bangle to take with him to the lady. He was at her house
every evening, and she drove in his carriage in the afternoons. There
was not an attempt on either side to conceal their relations; but there
came at last a little incident to interrupt them.

It was a dismal winter's night, very cold and gusty, with the wind
whooping in the chimneys and blustering against the window-panes. A
thin spatter of rain tinkled on the glass with each fresh sough of the
gale, drowning for the instant the dull gurgle and drip from the eves.
Douglas Stone had finished his dinner, and sat by his fire in the
study, a glass of rich port upon the malachite table at his elbow. As
he raised it to his lips, he held it up against the lamplight, and
watched with the eye of a connoisseur the tiny scales of beeswing which
floated in its rich ruby depths