is a foolish notion.'

'Yes? well?'

'Well, we'll wait.'

'Oh! have we to travel over it all again?' she exclaimed in despair at
the dashing out of a light she had fancied. 'You see the wrong. You know
the fever it is in my blood, and you bid me wait.'

'Drop a line to Nevil.'

'To trick my conscience! I might have done that, and done well, once.
Do you think I dislike the task I propose to myself? It is for your
sake that I would shun it. As for me, the thought of going there is an
ecstasy. I shall be with Nevil, and be able to look in his face. And how
can I be actually abasing you when I am so certain that I am worthier of
you in what I do?'

Her exaltation swept her on. 'Hurry there, my lord, if you will. If you
think it prudent that you should go in my place, go: you deprive me of
a great joy, but I will not put myself in your way, and I consent.
The chief sin was mine; remember that. I rank it viler than Cecil
Baskelett's. And listen: when--can you reckon?--when will he confess his
wickedness? We separate ourselves from a wretch like that.'

'Pooh,' quoth the earl.

'But you will go?' She fastened her arms round the arm nearest: 'You
or I! Does it matter which? We are one. You speak for me; I should have
been forced to speak for you. You spare me the journey. I do not
in truth suppose it would have injured me; but I would not run one
unnecessary risk.'

Lord Romfrey sighed profoundly. He could not shake her off. How could he
refuse her?

How on earth had it come about that suddenly he was expected to be the
person to go?

She would not let him elude her; and her stained cheeks and her
trembling on his arm pleaded most pressingly and masteringly. It might
be that she spoke with a knowledge of her case. Positive it undoubtedly
was that she meant to go if he did not. Perhaps the hopes of his House
hung on it. Having admitted that a wrong had been done, he was not the
man to leave it unamended; only he would have chosen his time, and the
manner. Since Nevil's illness, too, he had once or twice been clouded
with a little bit of regret at the recollection of poor innocent old
Shrapnel posted like a figure of total inebriation beside the doorway of
the dreadful sickroom.

There had been women of the earl's illustrious House who would have
given their hands to the axe rather than conceal a stain and have to
dread a scandal. His Rosamund, after all, was of their pattern; even
though she blew that conscienc