at her, but at the
costly ornaments which stood at the foot of the huge pier-glass over
the fireplace. Why did he not go now? why did he stand there silent
and thoughtful? why--why was he so cruel to her?

"I hope you are happy, Lady Harcourt," at last he said.

There was almost a savage sternness in her face as she made an effort
to suppress her feelings. "Thank you--yes," she said; and then she
added, "I never was a believer in much happiness."

And yet he did not go. "We have met now," he said, after another
pause.

"Yes, we have met now;" and she even attempted to smile as she
answered him.

"And we need not be strangers?" Then there was again a pause; for
at first she had no answer ready. "Is it needful that we should be
strangers?" he asked.

"I suppose not; no; not if Sir Henry wishes it otherwise."

And then he put out his hand, and wishing her good-night a second
time, he went.

For the next hour, Lady Harcourt sat there looking at the smouldering
fire. "Quos Deus vult perdere, prius dementat." Not in such language,
but with some such thought, did she pass judgment on the wretched
folly of her husband.

CHAPTER IV.

MRS. MADDEN'S BALL.

Two days after the dinner, George Bertram called in Eaton Square and
saw Lady Harcourt; but, as it happened, she was not alone. Their
interview on this occasion was not in any great degree embarrassing
to either of them. He did not stay long; and as strangers were
present, he was able to talk freely on indifferent subjects. Lady
Harcourt probably did not talk much, but she looked as though she
did.

And then Adela Gauntlet came up to town for a month; and George,
though he was on three or four occasions in Eaton Square, never saw
Caroline alone; but he became used to seeing her and being with her.
The strangeness of their meeting wore itself away: he could speak to
her without reserve on the common matters of life, and found that he
had intense delight in doing so.

Adela Gauntlet was present at all these interviews, and in her heart
of hearts condemned them bitterly; but she could say nothing to
Caroline. They had been friends--real friends; but Caroline was now
almost like stone to her. This visit of Adela's had been a long
promise--yes, very long; for the visit, when first promised, was to
have been made to Mrs. Bertram. One knows how these promises still
live on. Caroline had pressed it even when she felt that Adela's
presence could no longer be