e--The thought of a woman
came suddenly to her, she did not know why. Suspicion, jealousy woke
in her. She glanced sideways at Rupert under her hard hat. He looked
splendid on horseback, handsomer even than when he was on foot. For he
was that rare thing, a really perfect horseman. His appearance disarmed
her. She longed to do something for him, by some act of glowing
generosity to win him completely. But they were still in the streets,
and she said nothing. Directly they turned into the green quietude of
the park, however, she yielded to her impulse and spoke, and asked him
bluntly what was the matter.

He did not fence with her. Fencing was not easy to him. He turned in
the saddle, faced her, and told her that he had made a damned fool of
himself. Still bent on generosity, on being more than a friend to him,
she asked him to tell her how. His reply almost stunned her. A fortnight
previously he had secretly married a Miss Willoughby--really a Miss
Bertha Crouch, and quite possibly of Crouch End--who was appearing in
a piece at the Alhambra Theatre, but who had not yet arrived at the
dignity of a "speaking part." This young lady, it seemed, had already
"landed" Louth in expenses which he didn't know how to meet. What was he
to do? She was the loveliest thing on earth, but she was accustomed to
living in unbridled luxury. In fact she wanted the earth, and he was
longing to give it to her. But how? Where could he possibly get hold
of enough money for the purchase of the earth on behalf of Miss Bertha
Crouch--now Willoughby, or, rather, now the Hon. Mrs. Rupert Louth?
His face softened, his manner grew almost boyishly eager, as he poured
confidences into Lady Sellingworth's ears. She was his one real friend!
She was a woman of the world. She had lived ever so much longer than he
had and knew five times as much. What would she advise? Might he bring
little Bertha to see her? Bertha was really the most splendid little
sort, although naturally she wanted to have the things other women
had--etc., etc.

When she got home that day Lady Sellingworth almost crumbled. By a
supreme effort during the rest of the ride she had managed to conceal
the fact that she had received a blow over the heart. The pride on which
she had been intending to trample when she came downstairs that morning
had come to her aid in that difficult moment. The woman of the world
had, as Louth would have said, "come up to the scratch." But when she
was a