e in the papers. But no. What was that
he had said to Hugh--"No names to be mentioned; all scandal avoided."

She shivered and drew in her breath. It was to be settled some other
way. Her mind became an entire blank. Another way! What way? She
remembered now, and an inarticulate cry broke from her. They had drawn
lots.

_Which had drawn the short lighter?_

Her husband had laughed. But then he laughed at everything. He was never
really serious, always shallow and heartless. He would have laughed if
he had drawn it himself. Perhaps he had. Yes, he certainly had drawn it.
But Hugh? She saw again the white, set face as he passed her. No; it
must be Hugh who had drawn it--Hugh, whom she loved. She wrung her hands
and moaned, half aloud:

"Which? Which?"

There was a slight movement in the next room, the door was opened, and
Lord Newhaven appeared in the door-way. He was still in evening dress.

"Did you call?" he said, quietly. "Are you ill?" He came and stood
beside her.

"No," she said, hoarsely, and she sat up and gazed fixedly at him.
Despair and suspense were in her eyes. There was no change in his, and
she remembered that she had never seen him angry. Perhaps she had not
known when he was angry.

He was turning away, but she stopped him. "Wait," she said, and he
returned, his cold, attentive eye upon her. There was no contempt, no
indignation in his bearing. If those feelings had shaken him, it must
have been some time ago. If they had been met and vanquished in secret,
that also must have been some time ago. He took up an _Imitation of
Christ_, bound in the peculiar shade of lilac which at that moment
prevailed, and turned it in his hand.

"You are overwrought," he said, after a moment's pause, "and I
particularly dislike a scene."

She did not heed him.

"I listened at the door," she said, in a harsh, unnatural voice.

"I am perfectly aware of it."

A sort of horror seemed to have enveloped the familiar room. The very
furniture looked like well-known words arranged suddenly in some new and
dreadful meaning.

"You never loved me," she said.

He did not answer, but he looked gravely at her for a moment, and she
was ashamed.

"Why don't you divorce me if you think me so wicked?"

"For the sake of the children," he said, with a slight change of voice.

Teddy, the eldest, had been born in this room. Did either remember that
gray morning six years ago?

There was a silence that might be felt.