ted writing paper.

"How nice this address is in gold, with a big butterfly in the corner. I
have some invitations to answer, and I should like to do it here--it
looks so well."

Eleanor seats herself, and draws the paper towards her. "Mrs. Roche
regrets that, owing to no previous engagement, she is unable to accept
Mrs. B's dull invitation for Thursday!"

Carol laughs.

"Have you an 'At home' on Thursday week?"

"Yes, but I shall decline it."

"Don't," he whispers. "Accept--let them expect you--and fail to turn up.
Come and meet me instead."

Eleanor trembles suddenly and grows pale. She feels herself face to face
with temptation.

"No," she replies faintly. "But I shall be in, and _if_ you call----"

"'If'! there is no 'if' in the matter. I would come every day if you let
me."

"Every day!" Oh! how alluring it sounds.

She twists her wedding ring round and round, looking down on the carpet.
She remembers the pattern that night in her dreams, a red Maltese cross
on a blue ground. The blue and red swim before her eyes now like the
colours in a kaleidoscope. A solitary tear rises in her left eye and
falls on the blotter.

"If only I might do as I like!" she murmurs.

"'Might' is a word you could blot from your vocabulary. Why not?"

"Oh! don't--don't--don't," as he lays his hand on hers, and the touch
thrills her with bewildering emotion.

"Where is Giddy? Oh! Giddy, take me home; it is nearly half-past five,
and Philip will be back."

Mrs. Mounteagle raises her eyebrows at Eleanor's agitated tones.

"You told me he would be late this evening."

"Did I?" easing on her gloves.

Carol is standing behind with her cloak. His hands linger a moment as
they fall on her shoulder, and he turns up the warm fur collar about her
ears.

"My mite of a brougham only holds two," says Giddy, "and Bertie is coming
with me, so I dare say Mr. Quinton will see you home in a hansom."

The suggestion amazes Eleanor. Really Giddy has the most delightful
ideas, and as to Philip's prejudices----well her thoughts on this subject
are better not divulged.

One moment she is a panic-stricken girl, afraid as the very word
"flirtation", the next, inconsistent, susceptible, a slave to Giddy's
whims, easily led, easily beguiled.

She can hear her heart beating, as Carol helps her into the hansom. It
is dark already, dark as the unknown future, while they whirl away in the
gloom.

"It is cold," says Eleanor.