and let us part in
peace."

"Tell it me," she pleaded. "What name do you call her by?"

"Ethel."

"Ethel and Bella. Ah, Ethel is far the nicer name. We didn't think
once that you would ever be telling me you were going to be married
to someone else, did we? It feels queer, and it hurts me--a little, I
think. Good-bye, Jack. I see now why you could not kiss me--it would
not be right of you. She is a young girl and she might find it hard
to forgive you if she knew. I am going. You used to have a bell on
your table, I recollect, with a little white knob that you pressed
when Mary was to go to the hall door. Do you use it still? Oh, I see.
Let me press it instead of you, may I? I sha'n't feel so much as if
you were turning me out. Good-bye." She said the word lingeringly,
tenderly. "Say 'Bella' once again, for the sake of old times."

Jack Chetwynd took the slender trembling hand in his with God knows
what of anguish and pity stirring at his heart.

"Good-bye--Bella."

And the door fell to.

She was gone.

He could hear her hollow cough as she passed down the tesselated
corridor.

CHAPTER VI.

It was two days later. Sir John Chetwynd sat in his big easy chair
with an open letter before him. "We are surprised to have seen and
heard nothing of you," wrote the Duchess; "more especially as after
the few words we had in private upon a certain important matter, I
fully anticipated an early visit from you. But such a busy man as
yourself and one so much in request, both socially and
professionally, must not be judged by the rules which govern the
common herd, I suppose; at the same time (although I assure you she
has not said a word upon the subject) I can say that dear Ethel feels
herself a wee bit neglected. You must have been _professionally_
engaged last night, I presume, since we were obliged to dine without
you and go to see Sarah Bernhardt alone."

He had spent the whole evening in his consulting rooms, totally
forgetting his promise to escort his _fiancee_ and her mother to the
theatre.

Well, he would see them both on the morrow and make his peace, and
then--he dropped his head on his hands and fairly groaned. It was
useless to argue with himself, to bring commonsense to bear upon the
point, to count up the advantages to be derived from this union with
Lady Ethel; look at it which way he would, the fact remained the
same, that he had no longer the remotest desire to marry again.

The knowledge