ady line of her slight, graceful figure, gave him pause a moment, and
his hot glance fell abashed before the chill indifference that met him
from those brown eyes.

A man of deeper sensibilities, of keener perceptions, would have bowed
and gone his way. But then a man of deeper sensibilities would never
have sought this interview that the viscount was now seeking. Therefore,
it was but natural that he should recover swiftly from his momentary
halt, and step aside to throw open the door of a little room on the
right of the hall. Bowing slightly, he invited her to enter.

"Grant me a moment ere I go, Hortensia," he said, between command and
exhortation.

She stood cogitating him an instant, with no outward sign of what might
be passing in her mind; then she slightly inclined her head, and went
forward as he bade her.

It was a sunny room, gay with light color and dainty furnishings, having
long window-doors that opened to the garden. An Aubusson carpet of
palest green, with a festoon pattern of pink roses, covered two-thirds
of the blocked, polished floor. The empanelled walls were white, with
here a gilt mirror, flanked on either side by a girandole in ormolu. A
spinet stood open in mid-chamber, and upon it were sheets of music,
a few books and a bowl of emerald-green ware, charged now with roses,
whose fragrance lay heavy on the air. There were two or three
small tables of very dainty, fragile make, and the chairs were in
delicately-tinted tapestry illustrating the fables of La Fontaine.

It was an apartment looked upon by Hortensia as her own
withdrawing-room, set apart for her own use, and as that the
household--her very ladyship included--had ever recognized it.

His lordship closed the door with care. Hortensia took her seat upon
the long stool that stood at the spinet, her back to the instrument,
and with hands idle in her lap--the same cold reserve upon her
countenance-she awaited his communication.

He advanced until he was close beside her, and stood leaning an elbow
on the corner of the spinet, a long and not ungraceful figure, with
the black curls of his full-bottomed wig falling about his swarthy,
big-featured face.

"I have but my farewells to make, Hortensia," said he. "I am leaving
Stretton House, to-day, at last."

"I am glad," said she, in a formal, level voice, "that things should
have fallen out so as to leave you free to go your ways."

"You are glad," he answered, frowning slightly, and l