lingly into a flirtation, ready made to his hand, and as
dangerous as it seems light.

His life, he tells himself, is hopelessly embittered. The best things in
it are denied him; he gives therefore the more heed to the honeyed words
of the pretty creature near him, who in truth likes him too well for her
own soul's good.

That detested husband of hers, out there _somewhere_, the only thought
she ever gives him is when she remembers with horror how as a young girl
she was sold to him. For years she had believed herself heartless--of
all her numerous love affairs not one had really touched her until now,
and _now_ he is the husband of her oldest friend; of the one woman whom
perhaps in all the world she really respects.

At times her heart smites her, and a terrible longing to go away--to
die--to make an end of it--takes possession of her at other times. She
leans towards Baltimore, her lovely eyes alight, her soft mouth smiling.
Her whispered words, her only half-averted glances, all tell their tale.
Presently it is clear to everyone that a very fully developed flirtation
is well in hand.

Lady Baltimore coming across the grass with a basket in one hand and her
little son held fondly by the other, sees and grasps the situation.
Baltimore, leaning over Lady Swansdown, the latter lying back in her
lounging chair in her usual indolent fashion, swaying her feather fan
from side to side, and with white lids lying on the azure eyes.

Seeing it all, Lady Baltimore's mouth hardens, and a contemptuous
expression destroys the calm dignity of her face. For the moment _only_.
Another moment, and it is gone: she has recovered herself. The one sign
of emotion she has betrayed is swallowed up by her stern determination
to conceal all pain at all costs, and if her fingers tighten somewhat
convulsively on those of her boy's, why, who can be the wiser of _that_?
No one can see it.

Dysart, however, who is honestly fond of his cousin, has mastered that
first swift involuntary contraction of the calm brow, and a sense of
indignant anger against Baltimore and his somewhat reckless companion
fires his blood. He springs quickly to his feet.

Lady Baltimore, noting the action, though not understanding the motive
for it, turns and smiles at him--so controlled a smile that it quiets
him at once.

"I am going to the gardens to try and cajole McIntyre out of some
roses," says she, in her sweet, slow way, stopping near the first group
she