uld be far
wiser to drop Brooke's acquaintance."

"That is impossible."

"And why impossible?"

"His daughter is coming to him for a year: he has been here to-night to
ask me to call on her--to chaperone her sometimes."

"Is the man a fool?" said Oliver.

"I think," Mrs. Romaine answered, somewhat unsteadily, "that Mr. Brooke
never knew--exactly--that his wife was jealous of me."

"Oh, that's too much to say. He must have known."

"I am pretty sure that he did not. From things that he has said to me, I
feel certain that he attributed only a passing irritation to her on my
account. You do not believe me, Oliver; but I think that he is perfectly
ignorant of the real cause of her leaving him."

"And _you_ know it?"

"I know it, and Lady Alice knows it: no one else."

"What was it, then? You mean more than simple jealousy, I see."

"Yes, but--I am not obliged to tell you what it was."

"Oh, no. Keep your own counsel, by all means. But you are placing
yourself in a very risky position. Lady Alice Brooke knows something
that would, I suppose, compromise you in the world's eyes, if it were
generally known. Her daughter is coming to Brooke's house. You mean--you
seriously mean--to go to his house and visit this girl? thereby
offending her mother (who is sure to hear of the visit) and bringing
down the ill-will of all the Courtleroys upon your head? Have you no
regard for your character and your position in the world? You are
risking both, and you have nothing to gain."

"Yes, I have."

"What is it?"

"I cannot tell you."

"You mean you will not tell me?"

"Perhaps so."

Oliver Trent deliberately took a match-box from the mantelpiece, struck
a match, and lighted a wax candle. "I should like to see your face," he
said.

Rosalind looked at him fully and steadily for a few seconds; then her
eyelids fell, and for the second time that evening the color mounted in
her pale cheeks.

"I think that I know the truth," said her brother, composedly, after a
careful study of her face. "You are mad, Rosalind, and you will live to
rue that madness."

"I don't know what you mean," she said, turning away from the light of
the candle. "You speak in riddles."

"I will speak in riddles, then, no longer. I will be very plain with
you. Rosalind, you are in love with Caspar Brooke."

She sank down on a low chair as if her limbs would support her no longer
and rested her face upon her hands.

"No," she said, in a low v