w go, and never let me see your face again."

As he spoke, Bertie rose.

The two men stood opposite to each other--singularly alike in form and
feature, in magnificence of stature, and distinction of personal beauty,
save that the tawny gold of the old Lion's hair was flaked with white,
and that his blue eyes were bright as steel and flashing fire, while the
younger man's were very worn. His face, too, was deeply flushed and his
lips quivered, while his son's were perfectly serene and impassive as he
listened, without a muscle twitching, or even a gleam of anxiety coming
into his eyes.

They were of different schools.

Bertie heard to the end; then bowed with a languid grace. "It will be
fortunate for Lady Winton's children! Make her my compliments and
congratulations. Good-day to you."

Their eyes met steadily once--that was all; then the door of the library
closed on him; Bertie knew the worst; he was face to face with beggary.
As he crossed the hall, the entrance to the conservatories stood open;
he looked through, paused a moment, and then went in. On a low chair,
buried among the pyramids of blossom, sat a woman reading, aristocrat to
the core, and in the earliest bloom of her youth, for she was scarcely
eighteen, beautiful as the morning, with a delicate thorough-bred
beauty, dark lustrous eyes, arched pencilled brows, a smile like
sunshine, and lips sweet as they were proud. She was Ida Deloraine, a
ward of Sir Lionel, and a cousin of his young second wife's.

Bertie went up to her and held out his hand.

"Lady Ida, I am come to wish you good-bye."

She started a little and looked up.

"Good-bye! Are you going to town?"

"Yes--a little farther. Will you give me that camellia by way of _bon
voyage_?"

A soft warmth flushed her face for a moment; she hesitated slightly,
toying with the snowy blossom; then she gave it him. He had not asked it
like a love gage.

He took it, and bowed silently over her hand.

"You will find it very cold," said Lady Ida, with a trifle of
embarrassment, nestling herself in her dormeuse in her warm bright nest
among the exotics.

He smiled--a very gentle smile.

"Yes, I am frozen out. Adieu!"

He paused a moment, looking at her--that brilliant picture framed in
flowers; then, without another word, he bowed again and left her, the
woman he had learned too late to love, and had lost by his own folly for
ever.

"Frozen out? What could he mean?--there is no frost," tho