n the edge of
inconceivable depth. She could say no word in answer. She was utterly and
hopelessly at a loss.

With scarcely a pause Nap turned to Violet Shirley, who was seated on his
right, and plunged without preliminary into a gay flirtation to which all
the world was at liberty to listen if it could not approve. Ralph Waring,
thus deprived of his rightful partner, solaced himself with Mrs. Randal,
who was always easy to please; and the major on her other side relapsed
into bearish gloom.

It was with unspeakable relief that Anne rose at length from that
dinner-table. She had a deep longing to escape altogether, to go back to
the quiet Manor, where at least all was peace. He had hurt her more
subtly than she could have deemed possible. Had his friendship really
meant so much to her? Or was it only her pride that suffered to think he
valued hers so lightly? It seemed that he was fickle then, fickle as
everyone declared him to be. And yet in her heart she did not for a
moment believe it. That single glimpse she had had, past the gibing devil
in his eyes, deep into the man himself, had told her something different.

He hated her then, he hated her as the cause of his downfall. This seemed
the more likely. And yet--and yet--did she really believe this either?

"Dear Lady Carfax, do play to us!" urged her hostess. "It will be such a
treat to hear you."

She rose half-mechanically and went to the piano, struck a few chords and
began to play, still so deep in her maze of conjecture that she hardly
knew what she had chosen.

Mrs. Randal came to sit near her. Mrs. Shirley edged close to Mrs. Damer
and began to whisper. The two girls went softly into the conservatory.

Anne's fingers played on. Now and then Mrs. Randal spoke to her, thanked
her or begged her to continue. But presently she moved away and Anne did
not miss her. She was far too deeply engrossed in her own thoughts.

"Lady Carfax!"

She started, every nerve suddenly on the alert.

"Don't stop playing!" he said, and as it were involuntarily she
continued to play.

"I am coming to see you to-morrow," he went on. "What time would you like
me to call?"

She was silent. But the blood had risen in a great wave to her face and
neck. She could feel it racing in every vein.

"Won't you answer me?" he said. "Won't you fix a time?"

There was that in his voice that made her long earnestly to see his face,
but she could not. With a great effort she answered: