m." He saw her head drop a little; her
expression was full of musing, half-sad and tender. Then he remembered
that things had indeed changed since those old days, that Lady Betty had
a husband! It was strange, but the apparition, besides the rest of the
mischief, had momentarily driven the fact from the store of his
knowledge. He had had absolutely the delusion that this was the
brilliant Lady Betty, still unwed, to whom no suitor might aspire save
with yachts and palaces.

"I have been calling you Lady Betty!" he exclaimed. "The delusion of old
times was very strong."

"Please to keep on with the Lady Betty--I come back to it so easily. It
quite pleased me when it slipped from your lips. You have stepped out of
the long ago; I step back to meet you. You must still think of me as
Lady Betty."

"And Lord Lakeden?" he murmured, though he felt the inquiry was rather a
belated courtesy.

She stared at him, her cheeks white, her eyes growing unnaturally large.

"Your husband--I hope he is well," he explained, bewildered by this new
expression that seemed to hold mingled amazement and horror.

"My husband!" She laughed--a weird peal that filled him with a fear as
of blinding flashes to come. "Did you not know? I thought the whole
world knew. I have no husband!"

He looked at her. "I don't understand," he stammered.

"I really believe you don't," she said, her face still blanched. "My
married life was a short one. Lord Lakeden met with an accident on the
Alps--the summer before last. He went out without a guide. The details
were in all the papers. It was one of the sensations of the silly
season." Again a nervous laugh, but more than ever it was full of
unnatural echoes.

Instinctively Wyndham took off his hat again, and stood with his head
bowed. "I am sorry. My condolences are late, but they are sincere."

"I somehow expected you would write to me at the time. Hosts and hosts
wrote to me--till my head went dizzy; but never a word from you." She
was speaking with greater command of herself now, but he felt in her
words a world of reproach.

"I was living as a hermit at the time. I saw nobody for--shall I say it
seemed to me a lifetime--save the poor old woman who came to turn out my
studio once in every three months perhaps."

"Ah, you were unhappy!" Her face softened, telling of a swift,
spontaneous sympathy.

"I was nigh starving. I never saw a newspaper unless by chance; my
pennies were too precious."

"