eautiful just then, and the exclamation that
escaped her was as fierce as the stamp of her foot on the bare floor.

The two men were so close to the house that she could not escape by the
front door, and she did not know any other way. Could she instantly find
Reynolds she would then have asked him to conceal her till she could get
away unseen. But Reynolds did not appear.

It was a terrible moment for Mrs. Carey. Discovery in such a place and
at such a time was an appalling thought. Even with Geoffrey alone she
would hardly have known how to meet the first surprised glance; but
with another, and whom she knew not, the idea was intolerable,
impossible.

The men came on slowly; she heard their voices as they passed near the
window. Then she recognized Geoffrey's companion, and could she have
leaped from the piazza and fled, she would have done so.

Of all the men she knew, the only man she feared, or perhaps respected,
was Sir John Dacre. She did not understand him, while he seemed to read
her very soul. His presence robbed her of self-confidence, and made her
contemptibly conscious of her frivolity, or worse. He was like a
touchstone to her--and she never cared to be tested.

As the outer door opened and Geoffrey and Dacre entered the kitchen of
the lodge, Mrs. Oswald Carey stepped into the little passage opening on
the veranda. She gently lifted the latch of the outer door, but kept the
door closed. She carefully closed the inner door and crouched below the
opening. If discovered by Geoffrey she would confess that fear of
Dacre's presence had made her do this thing.

The conversation of the friends had been earnest, it was clear; and
before they had been in the room five minutes Mrs. Carey's fears had
given way to her curiosity, and instead of shrinking from the door she
raised herself to a kneeling position, so as to be near the opening, and
listened with breathless attention.

"The truth is, Dacre," said Geoffrey, "that I am not sure of myself. I
don't know that I have any political principles whatever."

"This is not a question of politics, Ripon," answered Dacre, almost
sternly; "it is a question, it is _the_ question of the reorganization
of the social life of England, which has been overturned and is in
danger of being utterly destroyed."

"Well, even for that I am not particularly enlisted. It does not trouble
me. Had you not told me about it, I should not have thought that
anything very serious was th