ngston," she said, "you are so cruel--and I am so lonely. Can't you
see that I am miserable? Kiss me!"

Brooks sat petrified, utterly amazed at this self-yielding on the part of
the last woman in this world whom he would ever have thought capable of
anything of the sort.

"Kiss me--at once."

He touched her lips timorously. Then she sprang away from him, her
cheeks aflame, her eyes on fire, her hair strangely ruffled. She
pointed to the door.

"Please go--quickly."

He picked up his hat.

"But, Mary! I--"

"Please!"

She stamped her foot.

"But--"

"I will write. You shall hear from me to-morrow. But if you have any
pity for me at all you will go now--this moment."

He rose and went. She heard him turn the handle of the door, heard his
footsteps upon the stone stairs outside.

She counted them idly. One, two, three, four now he was on the next
landing. She heard them again, less distinctly, always less distinctly.
Then silence. She ran to the window. There he was upon the pavement,
now he was crossing the road on his way to the underground station. She
tore at her handkerchief, waved it wildly for a moment--and then
stopped. He was gone--and she. The hot colour came rushing painfully
into her cheeks. She threw herself face downwards upon the sofa.

CHAPTER IV

LORD ARRANMORE IN A NEW ROLE

"The epoch-making nights of one's life," Mr. Hennibul remarked, "are
few. Let us sit down and consider what has happened."

"A seat," Lady Caroom sighed. "What luxury! But where?"

"My knowledge of the geography of this house," Mr. Hennibul answered,
"has more than once been of the utmost service to me, but I have never
appreciated it more than at this moment. Accept my arm, Lady Caroom."

They made a slow circuit of the room, passed through an ante-chamber and
came out in a sort of winter-garden looking over the Park. Lady Caroom
exclaimed with delight.

"You dear man," she exclaimed. "Of course I knew of this place--isn't
it charming?--but I had no idea that we could reach it from the
reception-rooms. Let us move our chairs over there. We can sit and
watch the hansoms turn into Piccadilly."

"It shall be as you say," he answered. "I wonder if all London is as
excited to-night as the crowd we have just left."

"To me," she murmured, "London seems always imperturbable, stonily
indifferent to good or evil. I believe that on the eve of a revolution
we should dine and go to the theatre, choose our houses