"

"He desires it should wait?" she asked in a quick tone.

"Yes, madame."

"I'd have sworn it," said Barbara Quinton.

"But with Mr Simon Dale----"

"With Simon Dale? What concern have you with Simon Dale?"

"He has mocked me twice, and I believe hinders me now," returned
Fontelles, his hot temper rising again.

Barbara clasped her hands, and cried triumphantly,

"Go to him, go to him. Heaven is good to me! Go to Simon Dale!"

The amazed eyes of Fontelles and the sullen enraged glance of Carford
recalled her to wariness. Yet the avowal (O, that it had pleased God I
should hear it!) must have its price and its penalty. A burning flush
spread over her face and even to the border of the gown on her neck. But
she was proud in her shame, and her eyes met theirs in a level gaze.

To Fontelles her bearing and the betrayal of herself brought fresh and
strong confirmation of Carford's warning. But he was a gentleman, and
would not look at her when her blushes implored the absence of his eyes.

"I go to seek Mr Dale," said he gravely, and without more words turned
on his heel.

In a sudden impulse, perhaps a sudden doubt of her judgment of him,
Barbara darted after him.

"For what purpose do you seek him?"

"Madame," he answered, "I cannot tell you."

She looked for a moment keenly in his face; her breath came quick and
fast, the hue of her cheek flashed from red to white.

"Mr Dale," said she, drawing herself up, "will not fear to meet you."

Again Fontelles bowed, turned, and was gone, swiftly and eagerly
striding down the avenue, bent on finding me.

Barbara was left alone with Carford. His heavy frown and surly eyes
accused her. She had no mind to accept the part of the guilty.

"Well, my lord," she said, "have you told this M. de Fontelles what
honest folk would think of him and his errand?"

"I believe him to be honest," answered Carford.

"You live the quieter for your belief!" she cried contemptuously.

"I live the less quiet for what I have seen just now," he retorted.

There was a silence. Barbara stood with heaving breast, he opposite to
her, still and sullen. She looked long at him, but at last seemed not to
see him; then she spoke in soft tones, not as though to him, but rather
in an answer to her own heart, whose cry could go no more unheeded. Her
eyes grew soft and veiled in a mist of tears that did not fall. (So I
see it--she told me no more than that she was near crying.)

"I couldn'