The ruins of Dacres Grange
should serve her for life. She tempts fate when she carries on her
gallantries and her Italian cicisbeism under the eyes of Scone Dacres.
It'll end bad. By Heaven, it will!"

Scone Dacres breathed hard, and, raising his head, turned upon Hawbury
a pair of eyes whose glow seemed of fire.

"Bad!" he repeated, crashing his fist on the table. "Bad, by Heaven!"

Hawbury looked at him earnestly.

"My dear boy," said he, "you're getting too excited. Be cool. Really,
I don't believe you know what you're saying. I don't understand what
you mean. Haven't the faintest idea what you're driving at. You're
making ferocious threats against some people, but, for my life, I
don't know who they are. Hadn't you better try to speak so that a
fellow can understand the general drift, at least, of what you say?"

"Well, then, you understand this much--I'm going to Rome."

"I'm sorry for it, old boy."

"And see here, Hawbury, I want you to come with me."

"Me? What for?"

"Well, I want you. I may have need of you."

As Dacres said this his face assumed so dark and gloomy an expression
that Hawbury began to think that there was something serious in all
this menace.

"'Pon my life," said he, "my dear boy, I really don't think you're in
a fit state to be allowed to go by yourself. You look quite desperate.
I wish I could make you give up this infernal Roman notion."

"I'm going to Rome!" repeated Dacres, resolutely.

Hawbury looked at him.

"You'll come, Hawbury, won't you?"

"Why, confound it all, of course. I'm afraid you'll do something rash,
old man, and you'll have to have me to stand between you and harm."

"Oh, don't be concerned about me," said Dacres. "I only want to watch
her, and see what her little game is. I want to look at her in the
midst of her happiness. She's most infernally beautiful, too; hasn't
added a year or a day to her face; more lovely than ever; more
beautiful than she was even when I first saw her. And there's a
softness about her that she never had before. Where the deuce did she
get that? Good idea of hers, too, to cultivate the soft style. And
there's sadness in her face, too. Can it be real? By Heavens! if I
thought it could be real I'd--but pooh! what insanity! It's her art.
There never was such cunning. She cultivates the soft, sad style so as
to attract lovers--lovers--who adore her--who save her life--who
become her obedient slaves! Oh yes; and I--what am I? Why t