stration. "You little----think what you
are saying," he cried.

But Sir Tom was opening the door for the ladies, and did not hear. Lucy
was tired and pale. She looked like a child beside the stately Contessa.
She had taken no notice of Madame di Forno-Populo's profession of
submission. In her heart she was longing to run to the nursery, to see
her boy asleep, and make sure that all was well; and she was not only
tired with her vigil, but uneasy, disapproving. She divined what the
Contessa meant, though not even Sir Tom had made it out. Perhaps it was
feminine instinct that instructed her on this point. Perhaps the strong
repugnance she had, and sense of opposition to what was about to be
done, quickened her powers of divination. She who had never suspected
anybody in all her life fathomed the Contessa's intentions at a glance.
"That boy!" she said to herself as she followed up the great staircase.
Lucy divined the Contessa, and the Contessa divined that she had
divined her. She turned round when they reached the top of the stairs
and paused for a moment looking at Lady Randolph's face, lit up with the
light of her candle. "My sweetest," said the Contessa, "you do not
approve. It breaks my heart to see it. But what can I do! This is my
way, it is not yours; but to me it is the only way."

Lucy could do nothing but shake her head as she turned the way of the
nursery where her boy was sleeping. The contrast gave her a pang. Bice,
too, was no doubt sleeping the deep and dreamless sleep of youth behind
one of those closed doors; poor Bice! secluded there to increase the
effect of her eventual appearance, and about whom her protectress was
draping all those veils of mystery in order to tempt the fancy of a
commonplace youth not much more than a schoolboy! And yet the Contessa
loved her charge, and persuaded herself that she was acting for Bice's
good. Poor Bice, who was so good to little Tom! Was there nothing to be
done to save her?

"What's going to happen on Thursday?" the men of the Contessa's train
asked of Sir Tom, as they followed him to the smoking-room, where Mr.
Derwentwater, in a velvet coat, was already seated smoking a mild
cigarette, and conversing with one of the parliamentary gentlemen. Jock
hung about in the background, turning over the books (for there were
books everywhere in this well-provided house) rather with the intention
of making it quite evident that he went to bed when he liked, and could
stay u